


Break the Foundation

by Wanderer (Straggler)



Series: Wait for the Dust to Settle [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Gen, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Minor Character Deaths, Multiple OC's, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Police Officer Stiles Stilinski, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straggler/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His pack is dying. His pack is dying and there is someone systematically attacking each of his Betas by going after the people they care about the most. Derek struggles to keep things under control on the supernatural front while Stiles tackles things from a legal point of view and despite everything spinning wildly out of proportion they try their best to figure out who is behind the deaths.</p><p>Meanwhile, cold cases and old reports are suddenly being brought back out to face the sheriff’s scrutiny and the secret they both tried so hard to keep hidden is about to be exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is ANOTHER work in progress with an estimation of somewhere between, oh, I don't know, maybe 9-11 chapters or so with an epilogue included at the very end, HOPEFULLY TYING EVERYTHING TOGETHER IN A NEAT BOW. Unfortunately, and I sincerely apologize for this, but the story hasn't been beta read so there's going to be a few mistakes here and there, or maybe a lot, concerning spelling, grammar, sentence structure, overuse of commas and so on and so on, blah-blah-blah. If you see any mortifying errors please let me know and I'll get around to correcting it as soon as possible. THANK YOU, DARLINGS!!
> 
> This story is pretty much a continuation of "Degrees of Separation" but picks up a few years after the craziness that was the first part. HUZZAH~~ HOPE YOU'LL ALL ENJOY READING THIS!!!

 

There’s an old cabin in the woods outside of the preserve close to the freeway where the sign for Beacon Hills is located. It’s full of empty rooms, broken floorboards, cracked windows, and a front door held up by one of three hinges. It’s been abandoned for decades but the blood splatters, disturbances in the gathered leaves and dusts all pointing to signs of the cabin having been recently used tell him otherwise.

Someone died here.

\-----

**Chapter 1**

\-----

There is no such thing as a night-off, Stiles finds out as he drives his way into the preserve mindful of the fallen logs and large stumps that occasionally litter the forest floor. If the suspension on his car breaks again then it’ll be the second time in just 3 months. His frown deepens when he hears a horrible screech from his undercarriage while his car jostles about as he continues going forward at a sedate speed.

It’s late, he’s barely had more than a few hours of sleep after he’d finished his morning-afternoon shift at the station when his phone started ringing and his radio transmitter crackled to life alerting him of a possible 187 and a 415 in the woods. By the time he arrives at the scene on the outlook, the one teenagers are so fond of having midnight rendezvous in, his dad is crouched beside a body, 2 other deputies are busy setting up spotlights around the area due to the rapidly setting sun while another officer is standing beside a distraught looking woman and her border collie, gathering information on what was found.

Stiles parks his cruiser next to his dad’s, slips on a pair of latex gloves and collects a flashlight from under his passenger seat before heading out to join them. He clicks it on and watches where he steps, not wanting to accidentally trod on any piece of what may be crucial evidence for their new case. As soon as he’s about 10 feet away from his dad he wants to groan at the sight.

‘Where’s the other half of the body?’ He asks his dad and brings his flashlight to look across the forest floor but he can’t see it. He catches uneven blood splatters across the ground and turned over patches of leaves but he’s not sure if it’s Mother Nature’s work or if someone else was here before they were. Most likely the latter.

‘Rodgers and Elliot will head out to find it after they’re done with the spotlights. For now, you can cordon off this area. I want at least a hundred yard radius blocked off. Go see Jones after you’re done with that.’

‘Yes, Sheriff.’ He goes back the same way he came, picks up a roll of yellow tape from the boot of his car and starts mentally measuring out distances between his dad and the area of the crime scene. He unrolls the tape, ties it around the trunk of a tree and starts walking.

Working with his dad was at times difficult and often got in the way of their growing relationship, mostly because his dad didn’t entirely agree on him joining the police force when he had a multitude of other career choices for him to select from. His dad eventually learned to cope with it over the years. Stiles won’t openly admit it but he prefers it this way, prefers staying where he can see him.

He passes Rodgers and Elliot discussing the benefits of bringing Trevor out from the K-9 unit to help with their search but Stiles doesn’t stick around to hear the conclusion of it. The grip he has on his flashlight is steady as he walks until he’s more or less finished off in a lop-sided circle. The diameter of it is at least a couple hundred yards wide and he deems it sufficient enough before he starts making his way towards Jones.

The woman had been distraught when he arrived on scene but is now opening crying, the stress of stumbling across half a body having obviously taken its’ toll on her mental health. She’s trying to talk at the same time but between the hiccups and sniffles and outright sobs it’s difficult to piece together the words she’s attempting to string together to form a story. Jones is half-sympathetic and half-uncomfortable and Stiles makes a detour back to his car to grab the lady a box of tissues and throw the leftover yellow tape into the back seat.

While she blows into a handful of it Stiles and Jones stand a small ways away from the lady to discuss what information he managed to get from her before she broke down in tears.

‘Lisa Tovall, aged 27,’ Jones starts reading from his notebook as he tucks his pen behind his ear, scratching at the premature grey hairs of his sideburns before trailing down to his week-old beard as he talks, ‘said she was doing her daily jogging and came across the body when Esther, her dog, stopped following her and started going off in a different direction. She called it in as soon as she found it. Time was at 6.13pm.’

That was barely half an hour ago and the dark blue hues of the sky are already setting in, swallowing the reds and oranges of the disappearing sun.

‘Which one is worse? Finding the lower half of the body or knowing that there’s another part of the dead woman somewhere behind us?’ Stiles’ question is punctuated with the sound of Lisa running past them to heave into a dead bush.

Jones clenches his jaw in sympathy at the sound of her gagging and bends down to pick up the leash of the dog that Lisa dropped halfway. ‘She’s going to have nightmares for months, either way.’ He answers just as Esther whimpers beside them. ‘I can handle this part; you go see what else John wants you to do.’

It’s been 3 years since his graduation from the academy but the team at the police department still fondly thinks of him as the rookie, especially Jones who was his training officer for his first 2 years joining the force. Sometimes he feels like he’s just an errand boy with an above average pay grade.

Stiles only just passes Lisa when another car, a silver sedan, crawls to a stop at a terrible angle next to his own car. Three people emerge from it carrying various pieces of equipment and tools with them, all donning gloves before trailing after him towards the sheriff.

‘Do you want an update on Ms. Tovall or do you want me to go help Rodgers and Elliot find the rest of the body?’ He hears someone repeat the second half of his sentence with an outraged squeak but he ignores them and waits for his dad to tell him what to do next.

‘Go help the others – the sooner we find the other half of the body, the better.’

There’s a stiffness in his dad’s shoulders, tension in his body as he stands next to the corpse with his arms akimbo. His head is angled downwards but Stiles can see the deep shadows beneath his eyes, a deeper furrow between his eyebrows and the deepening frown lines on his face. Stiles feels his own face contorting to mimic his dad’s but he smoothes it out before it’s noticed.

‘Yes, Sheriff.’

He doesn’t like his dad working long hours; leaving early and coming home late. He doesn’t like his dad eating irregular meals, mostly diner takeaways or whatever food the others bring in for snacks. He especially doesn’t like it when his dad drinks heavily on some nights before bed because it’s going to mess with his sleep cycle. There are a lot of things Stiles doesn’t like and there are a lot of things he can’t control but with the things he can he does his best to keep.

Stiles catches up with Rodgers and Elliot and proceeds to coordinate a plan with them. They decide to split across three directions, each person taking up a span of fifty yards between them. The sun has just dipped over the horizon and the spotlights along with their flashlights only cover so much ground. The moon, just two more nights from being full, hasn’t yet made an appearance to assist them. They might not be able to collect every single piece of evidence tonight but as long as they find the second half of the body then there’s a better chance of them being able to solve the case.

He sees her hair first, long and brunette, clumped with dirt and leaves. She’s lying on her front facing away from him. Her clothes are torn and shredded in some places but he doesn’t move the body as he whistles to catch the others’ attention.

The face is mangled beyond recognition and she’s got several bite marks along her neck and shoulders and through what he can see from what’s left of her clothes. He counts at least 5 and hopes what he sees is what he gets.

‘Jesus,’ Rodgers mutters as soon as he’s caught up, running a hand through his ragged brown hair. Elliot isn’t far behind but he already looks pale, his dark hazel eyes far too focused on the entrails scattered on the ground where her stomach used to be.

‘I know we sometimes get mountain lion attacks up here but nothing this bad,’ Elliot brings up as he crouches besides Stiles even though it looks as if he’d rather be standing much, much further away.

‘Mountain lion attacks?’He asks, feeling skeptic.

‘It was maybe about a year before you joined us – killed quite a few people, caused a huge fuss.’

Stiles hums and makes a mental note to ask Derek about it later as he stands. ‘I’ll report to Sheriff Stilinski and get one of the people from CSU to come over as well.’

The ambulance arrived possibly during the time when he and the others were searching for the missing half of the dead woman. The paramedics are already carting off the first half in a body bag.

‘I heard your whistle,’ John calls out as soon as they’re both within hearing range of each other. ‘How does it look?’

‘Worse than the first half, if you’d believe me,’ he sees his dad muttering under his breath and waves the CSU team ahead of him. Stiles is about to head back and join the others but a hand on his shoulder holds him back. He turns slowly, tries to gauge what his dad is thinking but all he can see is the stress in every line of his dad’s body.

‘Sheriff—’

‘You okay, son?’

He pauses, well aware he’s looking like a deer caught in the headlights as he stares back at his dad. He clears his throat to answer, ‘Yeah, why?’

John inhales a deep breath. ‘We don’t usually encounter these kinds of murders in Beacon Hills,’ he says with a pointed look over Stiles’ shoulder where the cameras occasionally flash to catch the nightlife. ‘It’s mostly theft and the odd case of vandalism here and there but nothing this grotesque. You sure you’re alright?’

‘Yeah,’ he tries to smile reassuringly, feels glad that his dad is looking out for his mental well-being, feels glad that he has _anybody_ to look out for him at all. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’

His dad doesn’t look convinced but then again, his dad doesn’t know anything about what he’s been through when he was gone for 12 years; he’s seen worse – he’s _done_ worse. ‘You can talk to me about it, if you want.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

As soon as the paramedics come their way with a second body bag it’s all back to business.

\--

The transition between hunter to police officer was both the easiest and hardest thing he’s had to do. The rules and regulations between both professions were similar but there was still the manner of legality to deal with. Police officers have to uphold the law and stand by it as a totem of honor and trust, to fight against those who have gone corrupt. Hunters follow their own set of rules, a Code to abide by. Unfortunately, unlike officers of the law who are trained to follow and keep the peace, hunters choose to do the opposite; whatever benefits them most.

When he’s holding a gun it’s easy to forget that he’s not a hunter – there’s a protocol he needs to keep to so he doesn’t suffer any legal whiplash. When he’s chasing down a criminal it’s difficult to realize that the person he’s after is just a human – a different kind of monster where not all of them have fangs and claws that can tear and rend to pieces.

Sometimes Stiles thinks he should’ve listened to his dad, should’ve picked another career to settle for the rest of his life. But then he remembers he was made for this.

\--

It’s nearing 3 in the morning and the preserve is eerily quiet. The light of the waxing moon is casting shadows of peculiar shapes in the area surrounding him and in-between the trees. He regularly counts the shadows on the ground where he stands within the perimeter of the spotlights and occasionally makes a quick sweep of the area beyond him with his flashlight. Nothing is amiss until he notices a silhouette that’s not in his own shape.

He knew he was being watched, had known for the past half an hour, but he’s surprised it took Derek this long to appear.

‘What do you know of the deceased?’ Derek asks as he eyes the bloodstained ground, his nostrils flaring as he exhales.

‘Female, mid 20’s,’ he replies succinctly as he hands Derek his phone. ‘No I.D on her persons so they’re ruling it as a robbery gone wrong. They think a mountain lion did the rest.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I could smell the wolfsbane on her,’ he finds it unfortunate that she came out here on her own. Most hunters travelled in groups of at least three – it’s rare that anybody would decide to go off on their own, himself not included. ‘How many werewolves?’

There were multiple prints on the ground, most of them smeared and some of them animal-like in appearance, further cementing the idea that a mountain lion happened upon the corpse. Except Stiles knows better – mountain lions don’t bite for fun and they most certainly don’t play with their food. They devour, even going as far as gnawing on the bone to get to the marrow.

‘There’s only one.’

‘One?’ He’d assumed there had been at least two. Two would explain the severity of the wounds, would explain how she’d been clawed and ripped into two separate pieces and flung into directions that are at least 300 yards apart. ‘Why so many bites?’ He’d counted five on his own without moving the body. The total number of bites after several pictures were taken came down to 11. And that was only the top half.

‘It’s feral; nothing it does is going to make sense at this point,’ Derek explains after he’s taken a look of the photos through Stiles’ phone, his frown deepening with each pass of his finger.

He shakes his head in disagreement. ‘No, no, there has to be a reason why.’

‘Don’t over think it,’ he tells him as he hands back his phone. ‘It’s just another Omega that’s gone off the deep end. We deal with it like we deal with the others.’

It’s not right, but no matter how many times Stiles looks at the photos he can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with the picture. He’s more than familiar with feral werewolves, having put down quite a few himself, but it doesn’t explain the brutality of the attack. It nags at him, seems like too big of a gesture but he supposes he won’t know for certain until they locate the stray werewolf. Preferably before it hurts and kills somebody else.

It’s going to be a long week.

\-----

Hunters are trained to be skilled in a number of things. There’s stealth to consider, initiative and resourcefulness, to be ruthless and to have their wits about them. There’s teamwork, cohesion, organization and the expectation to rise above and beyond the standard. Hunters are trained to be many things but most importantly, they are trained to be killers.

If there’s one thing her father taught her to do it’s to be a leader.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

He often dreams about being in a car. That in itself is not at all strange. What is, however, is the feeling of fear as he desperately claws at the door handles trying to get out despite the car going along the highway at speeds that won’t leave him unscathed if he were to manage the feat of bypassing the child-lock.

Someone knocks him on the head, yells at him to shut up. This isn’t something he’s used to (until it becomes his norm) and the shock of it paralyses him into stillness.

He sees the sign farewelling him from Beacon Hills and he cries.

\-----

**Chapter 2**

\-----

The act of howling is not reserved just for the moon. It is a form of communication; to warn, to locate and in some cases, something just for fun. Each wolf’s howl is unique; the cadence, while indecipherable to humans, is distinctive and telling. Derek is familiar with each of his werewolves’ howls, being the one that taught them how to control their pitch and vary their tones to reach the right level that their voices will carry on and be heard for miles and miles from the whole of Beacon Hills. However, the howl he’s hearing right now doesn’t belong to anybody from within his pack and the sound of it makes him see red.

He fights against the instinct to howl in return, to give a fair warning of what’s to come – the werewolf is trespassing and he doesn’t take kindly to those who kill within his territory – but it’s too late for that. He runs through the forest, his features only half-shifted to better enhance his senses, and listens as another long, low howl is carried along the wind. Derek grits his teeth together as he draws nearer.

With over half the pack scattered across California and a couple more on the far side of the states Derek doesn’t expect this fight to be easy. He only has Isaac with him on hand so they’ll have to put in twice as much effort and make it count. If another person dies because of their carelessness then they only have themselves to blame if they let the werewolf slip pass them.

Derek recognizes the direction of where he’s going, can still smell the old blood and the mixture of wolfsbane in the wind as he travels further inward. He slows to a stop before his heartbeat can be heard by the other and waits, trying to decide the best route of ridding the threat.

The hill overlooking Beacon Hills is a popular spot for teenagers and their late-night rendezvous. It also happens to be the location of where the dead woman was found torn in two pieces. What’s more, the outlook offers the best vantage point to carry a howl across several miles.

Another howl, mournful and desperate, reverberates through the air and Derek can feel a shiver building at the base of his spine. He’s never heard a call like this before where he can feel it deep down in his bones but it doesn’t win his sympathies, not when there’s already been a victim.

There’s a steady thump of a racing heartbeat coming towards him, followed by leaves crunching underfoot and deep breaths. Isaac stops a few yards away from where he stands and nods. He’s winded but it doesn’t take him long to get his breath back into his lungs to enact the next part of the plan.

They set off in different directions to converge in the middle; flank the werewolf on both sides to lay their attacks down. Derek hurries, puts in an extra dash to his steps the moment the werewolf is in his sights.

The werewolf’s dark hair is matted with dirt, twigs and leaves, his clothes torn to rags and falling to pieces around him. The man’s claws are extended, fangs long and sharp as his eyes flare in anticipation for a fight. Derek feels momentary panic that they’re not just fighting another werewolf but an Alpha instead. He snarls, lets his anger take control as the feral wolf charges towards him, all but ignoring Isaac.

Derek throws the first swing, aiming for the torso to tear through the stomach but his claws meet no resistance as it goes through what’s left of the man’s rags. Pain erupts from the sharp bite at the meat behind his ear, his vision whitening out before regaining clarity, but he uses the close proximity to his advantage as he digs his claws deep into the werewolf’s side, bypassing skin, fat and muscle tissue until he hits bone. Despite this, the Alpha’s bite doesn’t relent, only strengthens, while the werewolf’s claws rip through his shoulders, chest and arms to pieces where they stand together. He hears Isaac roar as he throws his attacks at the man’s turned back, slashing relentlessly at the spinal cord.

A pained howl is ripped from the feral werewolf, blood dripping down his chin and disappearing into the folds of his clothes as his legs crumple beneath him, taking Derek along. He watches Isaac steer clear away from them, blood dripping from the tips of his claws, lurking at the periphery of his vision just waiting for another opening. The rogue Alpha renews his thrashing against him, throwing wild swings whenever he can.

Derek is bleeding from several places, only faring marginally better the other werewolf whose claws are ruthless against his skin. He knows Isaac’s attacks have healed when the man’s legs kick out from under him and his ankle is forced into an unnatural angle. He shuts his eyes against the pain, just for a second, but it’s more than enough time for the werewolf to claw at his face, too close to his eyes, and force him to retrieve his hand from within the man’s warm body.

He falls, knows he’s wasting precious seconds trying reorient himself but the Alpha’s attention is elsewhere. He hears a crack of bone and Isaac’s scream, a human cry full of pain and horror, and the sound of it jolts him to the core.

Practically blind in one eye and unable to stand until he forces his ankle back into position, he watches as the Alpha drops a limp Isaac back onto the ground with a manic look in his eyes. He can still hear Isaac’s heartbeat going far too fast but at least he’s alive. He’s still alive but Derek isn’t sure for how much longer.

His wounds aren’t healing as fast as they normally would but he feels reassured when he sees that the rogue Alpha’s wounds are taking him just as long to recover from. Blood from the gaping hole in his side is freely dripping down onto the ground, trailing after him as he steps unevenly towards Derek. The man’s pupils are dilated and his eyes are bloodshot, indicating a burst vessel but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it. It’s only now that Derek realizes that the werewolf doesn’t care for his injuries at all, despite the severity of it.

Derek doesn’t bother trying to stand, knowing his ankle would hinder him further rather than help. He’s at a disadvantage, having less of a leverage lying on the ground than if he were on two feet. He’s thinking of breaking the man’s kneecap once he’s close enough to land a hit and he’s just a yard or so shy of it when he hears a faint pop and sees blood shower from the side of the werewolf’s neck, painting the ground in spots of red. The man gurgles and his eyes widen as his clawed hands reach up to touch his neck and Derek watches in shocked horror as blood spills from his mouth. Realization dawns on him when he catches the tell-tale signs of wolfsbane poisoning filtering through werewolf’s system.

The man falls down to his knees, choking as if he’s drowning in his own blood, his eyes flaring red before flickering to gold then fading down to a normal brown hue. Tears gather in the man’s eyes as he stares at Derek, his last moments of coherency before there’s nothing left as he topples onto his side, his heart no longer beating.

A breath of relief escapes him as Derek drags his eyes away from the still werewolf and watches the shadows between the trees. It takes a few moments but Stiles eventually appears from behind the shade with a sniper rifle cradled in both arms.

‘What took you?’ Derek asks breathlessly as he reaches down to his ankle and braces himself for unbearable pain.

Stiles hums nonchalantly as he sets down the sniper rifle beside them and bats Derek’s hands away so he can slide the dislocated ankle back into place. ‘Let’s see; first, he sunk his fangs into you so I couldn’t get a clear shot without taking you out with him,’ he begins to list as he assesses the damage done to him with gentle touches, ‘second, you were practically elbow-deep in his ribcage while Isaac blocked his back. And third,’ he frowns as he pulls and twists the ankle back into position, rubbing the skin behind the jut of his bone to soothe the ache as Derek’s vision whites out for the second time that evening, ‘I wanted to see if you could handle it without my interruption.’

‘I couldn’t, not on my own,’ he admits as he gingerly rotates his ankle and tries not to wince at the occasional jolt of pain that whispers up his leg. It’s relatively minor compared to the other wounds he has on his body but it’s far more annoying. Stiles nods before standing fluidly and going over to where Isaac lies, passing the dead body of the unidentified werewolf without much of a glance.

‘I was right, though,’ he begins conversationally as he gently wakes Isaac from his stupor and holds him down while he writhes on the floor in undisguised pain. ‘It wasn’t just an Omega that’s gone off the deep end – it’s an Alpha. That’s the reason why. The stability of the pack is what holds the wolves’ humanity together. So, what happens when you take that stability away? Balance is lost and the scales are tipped. An Alpha without a pack is an Alpha without a moral compass.’

Derek breathes heavily through his nose as he rises to his feet, shaky at first but regaining his balance after a few steps. As he wipes at the blood still lazily sliding down his face the implication of Stiles’ words finally catch up to him, forcing him at a stop. ‘You’ve met one before.’

‘I did.’

‘Did you kill them, too?’ He asks with a barely concealed sneer.

Stiles is different from the other hunters, Derek knows this, but he can’t help the feeling of rage whenever anything concerning his former identity is raised. It takes him moments to control the anger and direct it elsewhere. After all, Stiles had been manipulated from a young age and it’s a wonder he still has such a strong sense of right and wrong.

‘I showed her mercy,’ he says quietly as he looks over his shoulder towards the dead man whose face is still streaked with tears.

‘Mercy,’ he repeats softly as he stares down at the dead wolf by his feet. He remembers his call; deep and rumbling, and realizes belatedly that it’s a call for a pack, one that can no longer answer him. It makes him want to howl his sorrow to the night sky, an apology for a man who lost everything, even his mind. He shakes his head and continues his way towards Isaac, lays a hand on his neck to draw away some of his pain.

The blond shivers and lets out a faint murmur of relief as he tries to move closer as though he could take more. Derek apologizes as he moves his hand away to brace on either side of his arm bent at an awkward angle while Stiles gives Isaac a strap to bite onto. Derek doesn’t even give until the count of three before he’s resetting the break and a muffled scream is let loose from his throat while he bodily thrashes against Stiles’ hold. Isaac is sweating fervently but apart from the unfortunate break in his arm he’s relatively injury free.

Derek thinks the Alpha ignored Isaac in favor of him so he could usurp his place and take control of his pack to replace the one he lost. It wouldn’t work, though, because the connection between a new Alpha and the old Betas won’t hold as strongly, especially when done in a wrong manner. He’d eventually kill them all, too.

He wipes at his face again, satisfied to feel the gashes closing on the side of his forehead. He knows he’s got copious amounts of blood on his body, enough to seem like a horror-movie extra but he’s slowly healing. It might take a while longer before he feels 100% but he’s pleased they dealt with the problem before it went out of hand.

‘Here,’

Derek looks over towards Stiles and sees him holding out a travel pack of wet wipes. He takes it with a word of thanks and takes two tries trying to get the plastic to open under his slippery grip. He pulls out a couple, starts with his face and the whole thing comes away red before he’s even reached his neck.

‘No problem – I don’t want you to end up getting pulled over because you decided to try rocking a serial killer look.’

Isaac laughs tiredly as he rubs along his arm while Derek bares his teeth at him but Stiles only smirks in return.

He watches Stiles then, as he slips on a pair of latex gloves and starts working around the crime scene with a kind of quick efficiency he didn’t just learn from his months at the academy and his years in the field as a police officer. Derek isn’t sure for how much longer Stiles can keep on shouldering the burden of this lifestyle but he knows it’s not something they can do forever.

They spend the next 10 minutes recuperating. As soon as Derek’s wounds heal enough to work with he and Isaac take the body of the dead werewolf to be disposed of while Stiles opt to stay behind to clean up the area so it doesn’t look like a murder just went down. After all, people still like driving up to the outlook in the middle of the night for fun. The only reason why nobody is up here tonight is because the police department has the road blocked off for the still ongoing investigation and they won’t be taking it down for at least another few days.

‘You going to be okay?’

Derek turns back to Stiles, notices his watchful gaze as it lingers on the still-fading scars on his body. He’s aching and he can still feel the phantom tears as claws rip through his body. He feels physically and mentally exhausted and it’s evident in his voice and posture as he replies to him, ‘I’ll be fine.’

Stiles’ eyes him with a thoughtful expression but he eventually nods and bids them both goodnight before returning to the task of destroying evidence of a murder that just took place, to cover up for them.

It’s not a wonder, now that Derek thinks about it. It’s a miracle Stiles is the way he is.

\-----

It’s not unusual for him to set alerts on his computer calendar to remind him of certain things. Birthdays, for example, are frequent, as are board meetings. The bi-annual police barbeque and holidays of every sort ranging from the traditional to the more commercialized ones are also included in his alerts. He sets reminders for Stiles’ birthday, the day he was taken as well as the day he returned, and even though it pains him he also sets reminders for his wedding anniversary, his wife’s birthday and the day of her passing.

However, the alert he receives today isn’t for any of those listed. He feels dread and fear eat away at his insides as he reads the words on his screen over and over and over again until he can see it even with his eyes closed.

John braces himself for the inevitable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I just realized I made Isaac suffer another injury like he did in the first part of the series with a wolfsbane bullet. The poor boy. (IT’S THE SAME ARM, TOO!!)
> 
> Someone take him away from me. Obviously I’m no good to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opps! So, I admit that I've been a bit lazy lately but don't you fret! I won't be able to update as frequently or as quickly as I did for "Degrees of Separation" but I'll still try and update the story at least once a week!! I've been procrastinating a lot, not just with writing but also with life in general. X_X I really need to get my head back in the game, seriously!! -sobs-

 

Ever since he became a werewolf, and especially once he was willful enough to leave his childhood home, he’s taken great pains into avoiding a confrontation with his father. He keeps track of where the older man is at all times, having become attuned to his heartbeat, his scent and the distinct rumble of his car. Isaac makes sure he’s seen but he never sticks around long enough for his father to find him.

He hopes one day they’ll both be strong enough to speak to each other without anger and hurt taking control of their words and actions. He hopes one day his father will be able to see him and not hate him immediately on sight because Isaac reminds him too much of all the things he lost. He hopes one day his father will learn to forgive himself just as he eventually learned to forgive his father for beating him with cruel words and even crueler gestures. That day might come soon but it’ll never come soon enough.

\-----

**Chapter 3**

\-----

There’s a body tucked away on a cold sheet of stainless steel within the morgue, faceless and without a name. She has long brown hair, a young figure and is of average height. She could be one of many missing young ladies within the entire state but without a face, lacking any identification marks and with no dental records to go by they simply call her Jane Doe.

It’s been five days since the discovery of her torn body and they are still without any solid leads into the investigation of her murder. Fortunately for Stiles, the matter of finding the killer is already done and dealt with. Unfortunately for the Beacon Hills Police Department, she’ll be another cold case due to the nature of her untimely death.

There goes their closed cases’ rating.

Stiles exhales heavily through his nose as he flips on the signal to turn into Montgomery Court and continue his patrol down this particular part of Beacon Hills Suburbia. Every officer is assigned certain parts of the county to watch over and this area, along with a few blocks that are more central, has been Stiles’ since he first joined the force 3 years ago, riding shotgun in the cruiser with Jones as his training officer. He takes comfort in the monotony of it, feels reassured that everything is as it should be – the houses are unchanged, the Walker family’s caravan is still taking up two car spaces in front of their house, and the elderly Yen couple is sitting in their rocking chairs on their patio with cups of herbal tea to warm their fingers. There is, however, just one slight discrepancy.

‘Dispatch, this is Officer Stilinski, can I get a 10-27 on a Ford Focus 2000 model, number plate: sierra, foxtrot, bravo, 3-6-5. I’ll repeat that again: sierra, foxtrot, bravo, 3-6-5. Over.’

His radio transmitter crackles and fuzzes a bit before it clears to allow a woman’s voice to filter through. ‘Copy that, Officer Stilinski, let me run that plate through the system for you.’

Stiles waits patiently behind the parked vehicle and waves to Mr. and Mrs. Yen when he spots them. Their eyes are narrowed, giving each other ill-disguised nudges and talking in his general direction, probably saying things about him even though he’s been checking up on this street almost religiously ever since Jones handed it over for him to look after. He knows he’s young; he’s the youngest officer Beacon Hills has ever trained – most people usually get transferred in from out of county and they’re usually in their late 20’s or early 30’s – but he doesn’t think it should look suspicious.

Barbara’s voice snaps him back into focus. ‘The car is a Hertz rental. What is this inquiry for?’

‘I’ve driven past this car no less than three times a day for the past six days. It hasn’t been moved from the preserve parking lot, it’s drowning under a heap of leaves and I’ve got a feeling it’s been abandoned.’

‘Copy that. I’ll notify the rental company and see what I can get for you.’

‘Thanks, Barbara. You’re a doll,’ he grins as he turns the signals on, checks for any oncoming vehicles before executing a u-turn to head back down the road. He can always come back and check up on the car again later.

‘Flattery will get you absolutely everywhere with me, sweetie,’ she says with a smile in her voice.

‘Oh, dear god,’ his dad groans from the radio and Stiles tries not to outright laugh as he continues his routine check of his assigned area, stopping only once when a kid of about 8 started waving at him for help to get back the football he kicked up into a tree. It takes some maneuvering but after he gets about halfway up he manages to shake it back down along with a soccer ball, a Frisbee, and a Nerf bullet.

‘Thanks, Officer!’ The kid beams as he picks up his toys and runs back into the house yelling excitedly for his mother. Stiles thinks the parents should consider cutting the tree down or at the very least trim it but he shrugs it off and heads back to his car instead.

It’s nothing but radio silence for the next half an hour but eventually the transmitter sputters back to life just as he’s on his way back into town and Barbara is speaking to him once more.

‘Officer Stilinski, Officer Stilinski, I have information regarding sierra, foxtrot, bravo, 3-6-5. Please refer to your onboard computer.’

‘Roger, roger,’ he clicks off and slows to a stop by the curb, pulls the monitor to face his direction before tapping on the incoming alert to bring up a screenshot of the file.

The person who’s currently renting the car is a young woman, aged 26, and brunette. She has long lustrous hair, pale green eyes, a beauty mark a small tick above the left corner of her smirking lips and a look on her face as if she’s hiding a secret. Her driver’s license shows that she’s from New York, isn’t willing to donate her organs if death were ever to befall her and her name is Mikaela Harriet.

He searches up her name to see if anything comes up, finds that she’s got a few misdemeanors on record already – theft, suspected arsonist, vandalism of private property – and to top it all off she’s even got a gun license that expired well over a month ago.

Suddenly, he knows without a doubt that this is the dead lady who they’ve got in the morgue. He hastily executes a u-turn after checking the streets, begins to compose a text without looking down at the screen of his phone as soon as he’s straightened out his car. He verifies the message before choosing the recipient and sending it off. He doesn’t turn on the sirens, not yet.

‘Sheriff Stilinski, I think we just found our Jane Doe,’ Stiles speaks into the radio transmitter as soon as he turns back into the street, ignores the looks on Mr. and Mrs. Yen’s face as he drives past them.

‘What’s your 10-20,’ his dad asks and he can hear the faintest screech of tires from the other end.

‘End of Montgomery Court, near the south-west side of the preserve,’ he informs him as he parks beside the vehicle and slips on a pair of latex gloves before exiting his car.

‘I’m en route. ETA 15 minutes.’

Derek appears in less than 6 minutes but stays well within the tree line, just a blur and a shadow hiding within the forest. It’s broad daylight, people are still walking about the neighborhood doing their business and it wouldn’t look good if he suddenly started involving someone in an ongoing investigation who isn’t even on the police force.

His phone vibrates and he picks up the call, starts talking straight away. ‘Doors are locked, so is the boot. The rental company gave us permission to look through the vehicle but they’d prefer if we didn’t do any damage to it. Save for some pieces of paper and gum wrappers in the footwell, I can’t see anything else.’

‘It’s the same smell,’ Derek confirms once Stiles has finished his run-through of the situation. ‘Gunpowder, gun oil, wolfsbane, smoke – it’s a hunter’s car and it was definitely hers.’

‘Good. Great, one more problem solved – off record, of course,’ he pinches the bridge of his nose at the news even though he already knew this was going to happen. Still, as much as he relishes putting the clues together and solving it their own way he doesn’t relish the fact that this is going to reflect badly on his dad’s progress report.

His phone beeps, signaling the end of the call and he tucks it back into his pocket just as his dad makes the corner with sirens blaring and lights blazing. He thinks it’s a little over the top just for a rental car but he knows how important solving this case is to his dad, not just for the sake of the deceased’s loved ones but also for the police department. If their ratings don’t improve by the end of this quarter then they’ll be experiencing a sharp budget cut. A terrible catch-22 considering budget cuts means redundancies and a lack of employees will eventually equal to an even worse rating than they currently have.

Stiles bites his tongue against the urge to tell his dad everything.

\--

In less than half an hour Montgomery Court is suddenly a beehive of police activity. Mr. and Mrs. Yen are definitely not impressed, having shaken their heads at them before retreating back into the quiet of their home but there are a few curious bystanders gossiping and watching them as the CSU work with their cameras and a couple of police officers tag multiple pieces of evidence for later analysis. Sheriff Stilinski is busy on the phone trying to get jurisdiction over the abandoned car but the rental company is making him jump through several legal hoops before they’ll be satisfied enough to willingly write the car off and hand it over to the BHPD for the duration of the investigation. While everybody is busy with their assigned jobs Stiles is left standing behind the line of yellow tape and warding off any spectators from coming too close to what equally amounts to a crime scene. Just because there is a lack of blood and body parts doesn’t make the car any less of a vital piece of evidence. Its’ role could make or break apart the investigation.

Again, Stiles bites his tongue and says nothing.

His dad eventually finishes the call with a weary word of thanks to the district manager of the rental company but he’s barely hung up before he’s inputting a new set of numbers with practiced swipes of his finger, this time calling for the tow truck services. The call for somebody to come over takes significantly less time than his first one.

‘Alright,’ he says with a clear voice, loud enough to gather the attention of all the police officers onsite, the forensic crew as well as the snooping neighbors. Stiles doesn’t think he imagined them leaning in just a little bit closer. ‘Get everything you need from the car at this very location and then pack it up; the tow truck’s on its way. We’ll continue this back at the station garage.’

It’s a quiet flurry of activity as everybody moves to take the last photo, pick up any stray items, pen down any extra details onto clear plastic before they start to gather up every bagged piece of evidence, clear away the yellow markers, and return their equipment and tools back into its rightful storage container. It’s quick and efficient and by the time the tow truck is turning down into the street most of the police officers and CSU are back in their vehicles ready to depart.

Stiles only takes down a small portion of the yellow tape, just enough to allow the tow truck easy access to the rental car but it’s not until both vehicles are lumbering their way out of the street that he takes down the entire thing and allows the citizens free entry back into the preserve. Of course, once the curb is almost entirely free of the unusual visitors they all go back to their original business i.e. domestic boredom.

He doesn’t roll his eyes at the behavior but it’s a near thing as he crushes the yellow tape into a ball and throws it in the glove box to throw out later.  He takes another look at the parking lot, purely out of habit and not because he doesn’t trust his co-workers not to leave anything behind, and spots his dad waiting by his own cruiser with his hands in his pockets and watching him.

‘Something wrong, Sheriff?’ He asks, addressing him using his official title. He doesn’t want people to associate the two of them as father and son during work hours, wants to maintain a certain level of professionalism so they won’t be accused of playing favorites and/or pulling rank.

John shakes his head and pulls his hands out of his pockets, taking his car keys out with them. ‘Nothing we can’t talk about later. Keep to your patrols – I’ll see you when your shift’s over.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he tries not to frown when his dad jangles the keys in his hand, seemingly reluctant to leave, face sour as if he’s biting something back. Stiles wants to ask but if his dad says they’ll talk about it later then they’ll talk about it later. He turns to leave first and tries to ignore the feeling of being watched as he’s walking back to his car.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. He doesn’t slack, responds to calls when requested and offers his assistance when needed but he can’t help the low-level thrum of distraction burning in his gut. There’s not a moment where he’s not thinking about it and he wonders what his dad wants to talk about and why he looked the way he did earlier in the day.

Multiple scenarios pop into his mind – the budget cut has already happened even though the quarter mark hasn’t been reached yet and he’s been let go because he’s the youngest in the force and therefore the most expendable, or maybe the doctor called with new results concerning his dad’s health and it turns out his cholesterol problem is a lot worse than what was stated in the original diagnosis, or somehow his past life slipped somewhere and his dad knows every single nitty-gritty detail of what he’s done in the 12 years he was gone – each idea progressively getting worse and worse until he has to put the metaphorical brakes on his thoughts and just _breathe_.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ he mutters to himself as he turns into the driveway and parks his car next to his dad’s cruiser, loosens the tight grip he has on the steering wheel and tries to force himself to calm down. ‘Gather all your facts first,’ he breathes to himself as he wipes the sweat off his hands onto his trousers before pulling out his house-keys.

The living room and kitchen lights are on when he steps in through the front doors and he can hear the sound of paper being turned and flipped as well as his dad’s quiet murmurings to himself. A small bit of dread loosens its hold on his stomach as he leaves his keys on the side table and hangs up his jacket on the next available hook. The next time he looks up he spots John standing on the threshold of the kitchen with thinned lips and a tight look.

‘How about some dinner?’ his dad smiles uneasily instead but Stiles shakes his head and gestures for him to just get to the point.

‘What is this about?’ He doesn’t want to seem bad-tempered but he doesn’t want an easy break while his dad’s got that look on his face like he thinks Stiles is still that same young teenager he found in the middle of a police raid all those years ago.

John is shaking his head, looking more and more regretful as he goes back into the kitchen and back to that glass of scotch he’s already poured for himself, swirling the leftovers in the tumbler before downing a large gulp of it in one bitter go. Stiles caps the bottle, takes note of what’s left inside before putting it back in the cupboards and taking a seat opposite his dad, sorely tempted to cross his arms but deciding to keep them flat on the table instead.

Stiles counts the seconds, watches his dad sigh long and tiredly as he rubs a hand down his face, looking so much older and so much more stressed than when he did earlier in the day after a less than smooth phone call with the rental company. He braces himself for the worst, tries to quell the shiver he feels building in his stomach as John finally looks up from the glass and sees him.

‘Kate Argent is being released today.’

He freezes.

He doesn’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s clenched his fists until he feels his dad try to loosen his grip while talking to him in soft tones, telling him about restraining orders and minimum distances, how she’ll be on constant watch and that if she’s even one small step out of line then it’s back to prison for her.

He knows Kate, though. He knows her and he knows she’ll keep playing the model citizen until she lures her parole officers into a false sense of security thinking that she won’t do anything wrong. Being on parole means nothing to her because she knows how to get around them, bend their rules to her will and he knows that if she wants something done she’ll get it done in such a way that she won’t even be violating the terms of her parole.

She’d been careless last time but he knows she won’t make that same mistake again.

‘Stiles, you’ll be fine,’ his dad repeats for the third time in as many minutes as Stiles tries to breathe around the growing lump in his throat. ‘You’ll be fine; I’m here for you.’

He thinks about all the scenarios he played out in his head on the way back home but not even his worst scenarios included Kate Argent in the picture. In hindsight, he should’ve known this was coming.

\-----

They say one doesn’t appreciate what one has until it’s been lost. This is true and this is something he has experienced three times in his life.

He no longer has a wife to stand beside him, having selfishly died and left him broken; a shadow of a man he once was. His son, the only son he was ever proud of, died for a country that doesn’t deserve his broken bones and spilled blood. Any semblance of control he had over his life was stolen the moment Isaac turned tail and ran like a coward. In all honesty, he couldn’t care less that Isaac was gone – the boy was an ungrateful, inconsiderate brat who was better off dead – but he’d been his last piece of normality and now that has disappeared, too.

There will be a fourth but he won’t be the one to mourn over the loss of it.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing has been kind of…slow going. I’m getting a wee bit lazy, I’m sorry, but I’ll try and keep to my weekly updates as best as I can. It doesn’t help that I feel like I’m constantly stuck behind a metaphoric red light when it comes to my writing these days. Le sigh!

 

He puts aside a few hours every week to do errands – groceries, pharmacy runs, post office stops – anything and everything his grandma can’t do on her own. He’ll take her out if she asks – to the park, to the mall, to the cemetery – because he likes spending time with her, being with her, not just because he’s obligated to watch over her the way she used to watch over him when he was younger.

She calls him a good boy; a good son, and Boyd feels a rush of warmth and happiness bloom deep in his chest, a swell of love he finds comforting in the knowledge that the same affection is returned without hesitation.

People ask him why they don’t just leave her at a nursing home; it’ll be expensive but his grandma will be well-looked after and won’t knowing that give him some peace of mind? He doesn’t do it, though; can’t do it, because he doesn’t want her away from their home, away from her comfort zone, away from him.

Grandma spent years looking after him and watching him grow. He wants to do the same not because it’s expected of him or because it’s his duty as a grandson; she is his family and family means everything to him.

\-----

**Chapter 4**

\-----

The stench of death, ash and decay is always in his nose – has been for over a decade now. He breathes, holds the air in his lungs until they tremble beneath his rib cage before he exhales heavily and repeats the same motion. The smells, however unreal, never fails to bring a sour taste to his mouth and a clog in his throat but no matter how many times he swallows he can’t bring himself to rid the devastation he feels in his limbs.

When he arrived at the very edge of his property earlier that morning he’d found that his family home had fallen to ruins sometime in the last couple of days he’d been away, its four walls no longer standing. The staircase that once led up to the second floor now leads to a sheer 12-foot drop back to the ground. Every room has buckled in on itself, every window shattered, every door broken down. The only thing still marginally upright is the patio but even that won’t last for much longer, not with the weather slowly taking a turn for the worse; the peak of winter well on its way.

Derek thinks his family would hate him for leaving the house as it is but he knows he deserves that hate; wishes they were alive to tell him so.

A gentle touch on his forearm reminds him that he still has potatoes to peel and he moves to close the tap before he wastes any more water and overflows the sink.

‘I’m sorry about the house,’ Isaac tells him softly as he squeezes Derek’s arm consolingly, ‘that it collapsed before you were ready to let it go.’

He’d taken careful steps into the house, the floor creaking ominously as he walked, feeling unsure and uncertain as if he’s a stranger in what used to be such familiar surroundings. The memories of his home is bright and clear in his mind; he remembers every twist and turn he’d need to take to reach the dining area, how many more to reach the kitchen where his siblings and parents will be, but when he opens his eyes all he sees are ghosts and a decrepit room.

‘I don’t think it’s something anybody can prepare for, given the situation,’ he murmurs quietly, almost to himself as he gently dislodges Isaac’s hand from his arm and peels the last of the potatoes.

A small noise escapes the blonds’ throat but Derek pays it no mind as he tries to lose himself in the monotonous chore of chopping the potatoes into rough, even chunks. He throws them all into a pot, gives them a quick rinse before drowning them in just enough water and leaving it on the stove to boil. He’s just about to grab the two bags of green beans to top, tail and half when Isaac snatches it from right out of his fingers.

‘I can do it,’ he says a bit too eagerly, ‘don’t worry about it.’

Derek tries not to sigh. ‘I’m not angry, Isaac.’

‘I know,’ he finishes softly, his expression changing from one of enthusiasm to one of reflection, as though he understands what Derek is going through, more or less. ‘Go and finish that book; you’ll know when dinner is ready,’ he grins and promptly shoves Derek out of the kitchen.

He shakes his head, wonders what he did to deserve a Beta like Isaac as he walks through the loft and retreats into his bedroom upstairs, leaving the door ajar as he lies back on his bed with his eyes focused on the cobwebbed ceiling.

Derek can easily lose hours to his thoughts; a small tribute to pay for the untimely death of his loved ones. He mourns for the loss of his family every day, feels the hollow ache in his chest and reminds himself of all the poor decisions he’s made in his life and tells himself he deserves it; all of it, because there’s no one else to tell him that everything that happened is his fault and his fault alone.

The book is exactly where he left it with its pages open and lying face down on the bedside table but he’s no longer in the mood to read despite almost reaching the climax of the story. Instead, he listens to the steady metronome of Isaac’s heart, counts the swish and crunch of the vegetables he’s chopping and the bubble of the potatoes slowly coming to a boil; lets the noise lull him to a quiet daze.

Sometimes he wonders how differently his life would’ve turned out if he’d chosen to stay away from Beacon Hills rather than come back.

He hears the sound of breaking glass with the same kind of clarity as if he’d been the one to drop it. There’s a spike in Isaac’s heartbeat and Derek can hear his breathing becoming more and more ragged as the seconds drag on. He snaps to attention, jumps from his bed and hurries, pulls the door open too quickly in his haste to get out and accidentally knocks his head against the wood, almost snapping the doorknob off in the process. He shakes it out and clambers his way down the spiral staircase, eyes and ears alert for any threat but finding none within the immediate vicinity.

There’s a broken bowl on the floor, green beans scattered in all directions in the adjoining kitchen and Isaac is looking at him wide-eyed and terrified, his heart beating wildly in his chest and his lungs heaving as if he can’t get enough air. Isaac’s hands are visibly shaking but no matter how far Derek stretches his senses he can’t find anything to have made Isaac turn this way. He sincerely doubts it was the onions’ fault.

Isaac is a lot of things but clumsy isn’t one of them, at least not since he’d been given the bite.

A hitched voice draws his attention back to Isaac as the boy slowly lowers himself to the ground, his fingertips coming too close to the shattered ceramics as tears gather in his eyes and fall freely to the floor. A keening sound cuts through the air as Isaac cries, worrying the wood beneath his lengthened fingernails until they bleed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Derek asks as he kneels beside Isaac, ignoring the crunch of beans on the knees of his jeans as he lays a hand over his neck, tries to calm him down but the touch only serves to distraught him further. He takes the hand away and asks him again, repeatedly until Isaac is coherent enough to answer him.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks, his reddened eyes displaying all his desperation and grief when he meets Derek’s gaze, ‘Is this what it feels like? When someone dies?’

Something cold fills his system, shakes him to the core and he feels dread and fear roiling in his gut as he tries to get Isaac to explain. It can’t be Boyd, Erica or Scott; they’re fine, he knows they are because he’d have felt it himself if any harm were to befall them despite the distance that separated them.

‘Who?’ He demands the same time it clicks to him what other possible connections Isaac may have, however slight it might be.

‘My dad,’ Isaac confirms with another wretched howl. It’s a cry that reminds him too intimately of his own when he felt his family perish – a harsh reminder of the Alpha that lost his humanity when his pack was destroyed along with it.

Derek’s not a stranger to wishing death on people, he’s definitely no stranger to killing either, but regardless of how much he hated Isaac’s father for hurting his own flesh and blood Derek had never hated him enough to want him dead.

\--

The beans aren’t salvageable; bits of ceramic are never pleasant, the potatoes are only half cooked, the onions are sliced and ready to be sautéed when the steak is grilled but neither of them is in the mood for it. Isaac can’t even stomach the thought of food – something Derek can more than relate to.

They wait because it’s the only thing they can do and no matter how much Isaac begged to go see his father Derek couldn’t let him go. Isaac hasn’t made contact with his dad for years; it would seem out of character and too unusual if he were to break the routine now. So instead they sit in front of the TV and watch the clock tick away. Isaac’s leg is never still, the whole couch vibrating along with him as he slouches forward, his fingers digging into the upholstery sometimes with human nails and other times with claws. Neither of them speaks.

It’s approaching 10 in the evening when they hear a car pull up and two people exit the vehicle, one a familiar heartbeat and the other a complete stranger. Isaac isn’t breathing, is holding his body stiffly against the couch with his eyes far too focused on the door. He jumps, looks ready to flee across the state, when the first knock echoes around their loft even as they counted the footsteps leading towards the door and he begins to shake in his seat. When Derek stands up to answer the door Isaac can’t help giving him a wide-eyed look full of terror.

He gives Isaac a moment to compose himself before unlatching the bolt and twisting the knob open. He acts surprise when he sees Sheriff Stilinski standing on the other side along with a dark haired deputy he doesn’t know and plays the part of a curious yet anxious citizen well. ‘Is there something wrong, Sheriff?’

‘Mr. Hale,’ the older man greets with a practiced voice, eyes quick and sharp as he looks over Derek’s shoulder in the vague direction of where the TV is located, ‘is Isaac Lahey here with you tonight? I’m afraid we may require the both of you to come down to the station with us.’

‘Isaac is watching TV. Do you mind if I ask what this is about? I know he’s too old to need me to act as his guardian but…’ he trails off, lets the others decide how to finish the sentence as he widens the door and allows them entrance into the loft.

‘I know what you mean,’ Sheriff Stilinski says companionably as he enters past the threshold with the deputy following close behind, shutting the door after them. They follow straight through until they see Isaac lying across the couch with his arms pillowed behind a cushion looking comfortable and as if he hadn’t just suffered through an emotional breakdown just a few hours prior. The only thing currently giving him away is the wild beating of his heart.

‘Whoa,’ he says as he immediately sits up and rolls to his feet, holding the cushion close to his chest like a shield. ‘What’s going on here?’ He asks as his eyes immediately dart towards the sheriff’s badge and to the stars on the deputy’s shoulders.

‘Mr. Lahey, I’m afraid I have some news to share with you but we’d like for you and Mr. Hale to answer a few questions down at the station for us first. If you don’t mind,’ Sheriff Stilinski repeats as he nudges his head towards the door, a subtle order clear in his tone and posture.

‘S-sure, I guess,’ he shrugs indifferently as he throws the cushion back onto the couch and obediently goes to retrieve a jacket. Derek switches off the TV before following suit, slipping on his leather jacket and checking to make sure his wallet, phone and keys are on him before heading out with the others, locking the door behind him as they leave.

The police cruiser smells like drugs, coffee, sweat, alcohol, something sugary, gunpowder and vomit, making Derek feel just on the wrong side of nauseous, but at least the seats are comfortable as he buckles himself in and watches Isaac do the same. The blond looks pale suddenly, breathing too harshly through his mouth with his eyes shifting about the interior of the car looking like a caged animal. Derek lays a firm grip on Isaac’s forearm and waits until the blonds’ heartbeat settles to a more comfortable rhythm before taking his hand away.

‘Sorry about dragging you guys in so late at night,’ Sheriff Stilinski brings up from up front as he slows to a complete stop at a give-way sign despite the road being completely empty. ‘We shouldn’t take up too much of your time though, if all goes well.’

‘Okay, but seriously,’ Isaac starts as he leans forward in his seat until his fingers are touching the grate separating the front seats from the back of the car, ‘what’s actually going on here?’

‘Unfortunately, we can’t tell you until we reach the station. We won’t be for much longer, maybe another 10 minutes depending on traffic conditions.’

Except for the one or two cars still on the road there’s nothing forcing the sheriff to go at 5 miles under the speed limit but he knows this is more of an intimidation technique, something to rile them up with, than a relaxing drive around the block at night. While it’s not quite working for him he can tell Isaac is a little worse for wear, as though he knows what’s going to happen next.

It’s quiet the rest of the way to the station, barring a few murmurs here and there between the two officers. It’s almost half past 10 by the time they arrive at the police department and while Derek is led towards the waiting room by the deputy, whose badge reads Elliot, Isaac is taken away and left to himself within one of the interrogation rooms, his heartbeat spiking back up at the sudden separation.

Derek doesn’t quite know what’s going on but he knows it’s got something to do with Isaac’s dad being dead. It’s possible they’re only just bringing him in to gather their bearings, get the basics, but he doesn’t know why they have to do it in such extreme conditions.

He knows Stiles is nearby, his proximity close enough to be in the room next to Isaac’s but he ignores it when a different officer comes into the waiting room with a hot cup of filtered coffee, smiling politely at him as she offers it. He thanks her with a smile of his own and warms his fingers on the porcelain as he sits back in wait.

There’s another jump in Isaac’s heartbeat when Sheriff Stilinski finally enters the room and shuts the door behind him, beginning their conversation with rudimentary questions. The room is soundproof to humans but not to werewolves; it’s muffled but with enough concentration Derek can still pick apart each word that’s being said. After the fifth question Isaac’s patience finally snaps and he asks him what this is about.

‘It’s the middle of the night and I have a class at 7 o’clock in the morning; if all you wanted to ask was about my studies then we could’ve done this over the phone or in the afternoon after 4 when my last lecture usually lets out.’ Isaac’s tone is full of righteous anger but the horrible _thump_ , _thump_ - _thump_ of his heart and the slightest of hitches in his speech gives away his tell. Derek knows he couldn’t care less about missing a couple of classes and even less so over losing some sleep but if there’s a point to be had then it’s obvious he wanted it ten minutes ago.

Sheriff Stilinski is silent but he eventually sighs, finally informing them of Tredan’s murder. There’s a catch in Isaac’s breathing as his anger bleeds out of his voice as he asks how, why and who. He starts crying before he can get to when, where and what. They knew the man was dead but to hear that the last of his family was murdered is the worst news Isaac will ever receive.

Thankfully, the sheriff waits for Isaac to calm down before going down a different line of questioning, this time concerning the relationship he had with his father as well as his whereabouts during the time the older man was killed.

‘It says here that you’re emancipated. When was the last time you saw your father?’ Sheriff Stilinski asks, moving several sheets of paper and tapping it along the desk, interfering with Derek’s hearing.

Isaac sniffs repeatedly and when he next speaks it’s with a stuffy nose. ‘I saw him a few days ago outside the gas station. He was pulling in and I was driving out but, I haven’t actually talked to him since the day we were in court and the judge relieved his custody of me.’

‘Alright,’ the older man says as he clicks on a pen and scratches Isaac’s statement down onto paper. ‘Where were you between 6 and 9pm on Wednesday the 14th?’

‘Tonight? I was with Derek; I live with him. Look,’ he starts suddenly, sniffing once more to clear his nose before continuing, ‘he deserved to lose me as the only family he has left but he didn’t deserve to die. I never hated him; I just felt sorry.’

‘Your father was a good man before he…’ Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t finish, merely exhales heavily as he pushes his chair noisily backwards. ‘I’ll need to speak with Mr. Hale for a short while before I let the both of you go. I’ll make sure you both get a ride back home.’

As soon as the door of the interrogation room opens Derek finally notices the lukewarm cup of coffee he hasn’t even taken a sip out of. The first and last gulp of it leaves a burnt taste on his tongue and makes his nausea return to sit uncomfortably in his stomach.  The feeling worsens when he steps into the interrogation room after Isaac, the smell of fear so strong in his nostrils that his legs almost buckle under the strain of it. He takes a seat before his knees give way.

\--

It’s late in the night, almost the break of dawn, when he gets a text message from Stiles. It’s just an address, no greeting whatsoever, but it’s enough of a hint for him to get dressed and leave as quietly as possible without alerting Isaac of his intentions. Derek walks rather than uses the car, keeps his ears focused on Isaac to make sure he’s still asleep until he’s about a block away before hurrying along. Instead of sidewalks and alleyways he jumps from one rooftop to another under the cover of darkness, gaining speed the more his body wakes and adjusts to the unexpected work-out.

He less than three blocks away from the address Stiles gave him when he smells it – blood and copious amounts of it, enough to drown out the stench coming from the industrial bins full of rotting leftover foods and bodily fluids. Just under that is the vaguest sense of gunpowder.

As soon as he lands on the last rooftop leading up to the location his phone starts vibrating in his pocket and he can hears Stiles already muttering into the mouthpiece before the call’s been picked up.

‘I heard you from three buildings away. Maybe you ought to work on your landing ‘cause you’ve got a bad case of heavy foot,’ he says in lieu of an actual greeting.

‘Wrong idiom; I’m not in a car,’ he retorts without bite as he leans over the edge to stare down at Stiles who’s smirking up at him.

‘Well, if you want to be technical about it,’ he shrugs but quickly shifts the conversation back to the original point. ‘Tredan Lahey was shot as he was walking back to his car,’ he begins to explain while pointing at a bloody spot on the sidewalk where the body was found before shifting to gesture at an empty parking spot just half a building away. ‘It’s suggested to be a personal attack– his wallet and personal belongings were still on him when the police arrived so they’re ruling out robbery as the main motive.’

‘Hired hit?’

Stiles shakes his head as he turns his gaze up towards Derek before looking further down into the alleyway. ‘I don’t think so. Think about it – Tredan Lahey isn’t anybody special; he works a normal job, has normal hobbies and a normal social life - he doesn’t stand out.’

‘Then why is he dead?’

Stiles doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know.

\-----

He’s no longer in the business of Hunting, hasn’t been since Stiles took it upon himself to keep Beacon Hills safe using his influence and position within the police as well as help from Derek and the others. Chris still gets updates from them occasionally, still helps when it’s required of him but it’s more of a casual occupation than an actual permanent job now. There’s still a sense of urgency when unexplained deaths occur within their county but there’s less pressure than there was before. Of course, it helps when Allison is away for most of the year with her college studies keeping her busy. The only stress she’ll be experiencing most of the time now will be over looming examinations and assignment deadlines rather than the possibility of dying and death.

Chris will never admit this out loud but he sleeps easier at night now that he and his daughter are no longer part of the Hunter trade.

This peace, unbeknownst to him, will be short-lived.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Days at the hospital range from quiet to chaotic. They’re both equally bad, both equally stressful, both equally heart and mind numbing but in different ways. There’s the stillness that comes from waiting for a person to take their last shuddering breaths before they fade away and leave behind all their mortal coils. There’s the shock of hearing a wrist monitor flat-lining and the rush that comes from arranging and ordering paramedics to hurry to the residence, fingers crossed that they’re not too late to resuscitate the patient.

But there are the days in-between, the ones full of hope and celebration – the birth of a child or the full recovery of a person who’d been bed-ridden for days or weeks or months or sometimes even years – that keep Melissa positive and buoyed with the prospect of life’s many wonders.

There are bad days and there are good days. There is life and there is death.

That’s okay. That’s normal.

Until it’s not.

\-----

**Chapter 5**

\-----

The first 48 hours in any case are the most crucial – every piece of evidence cataloged, every testimony gathered, every man-power involved; they are all vital to bring about Justice to those who deserve it. However, in the case of Tredan Lahey’s murder, the situation is bleak. All they have to show for two solid days of investigation is a single 9mm caliber bullet, a collection of photographs from the crime scene, and a clean bill of health from the autopsy report.

There’s nothing they can do with the bullet, not until they find the gun to go with it to get a full ballistics report from it. For now it’s in a labeled bag, waiting just like the rest of them.

Stiles continues to stare at the whiteboard full of photos, notes, timeline, alibis as well as arrows pointing to and from one possible suspect to another. He leans back in his chair until he’s sitting on two legs, fingers tapping an incessant rhythm on his chin while his other hand tightens and loosens on the edge of his chair for lack of anything better to do.

He hears the front door open and shut, the sound of keys jangling and landing in a pile on the side table next to the clothes rack. Eventually, his dad makes an appearance into the dining room and can’t help but sigh at what he sees.

‘Stiles, how long have you been staring at that?’

‘A while,’ he hedges, preferring not to tell his dad that he’s been looking at the board for hours, practically since the minute he got home from his own shift at the station. ‘Did you guys make any headway into the case?’

John shakes his head as he heads over to the fridge to pull out a bottle of beer which Stiles immediately confiscates and replaces it with a foil-wrapped plate of food that’s still warm. His dad rolls his eyes but accepts the food and goes to retrieve some cutlery from the drawer before sitting down opposite him. ‘Closest person to a suspect we have is Isaac Lahey but his alibi checks out, that is if you want to believe Derek Hale.’

Stiles eases the chair back down on four legs, eyes fixed on the board but focuses on his dad instead. ‘You don’t.’

He snorts, thankfully not choking on the mouthful of chicken stir-fry as he does so. ‘I’m skeptical at best.’

‘Is Derek Hale someone we need to investigate?’ Stiles asks as he runs his thumb along the sharp grooves of the bottle cap, fingers dragging along the neck to collect the condensation forming along the glass.

His dad turns his eyes to him, narrowed in a way that’s both thoughtful and assessing. ‘Isn’t he your friend?’

‘This is for work,’ he replies and waits for John to take another bite of his dinner before twisting the cap off and handing over the beer. ‘I want to get all my facts straight, cover all my bases. Friend or not, we need to be thorough.’ He knows Derek didn’t do it; didn’t commit murder, not in this case, but if his dad believes so then he needs to explore every avenue to prove or disprove it. Being the sheriff’s son doesn’t mean his word is equal to a testimony, not always, but being an officer of the law allows him more leeway when it comes to convincing his dad of something or someone, especially when he’s armed with facts and not just assumptions.

‘And if he’s the one to put the bullet in Tredan Lahey’s head?’

Stiles stares down at the recent photo of Derek he’s got pinned up on the board, an edited mug-shot that was taken a couple of years prior to his permanent residence in Beacon Hills before he buried Dylan O’Brien to the ground. ‘Then we find the evidence to convict him,’ he says without hesitation, turns to see his dad nod at him with pride and determination clear in his eyes and on the edges of his lips. ‘But speculations aside, it’s all very circumstantial.’

John snorts again as he brings the bottle to his lips, ‘about as circumstantial as burying your sister in the backyard of your burnt-down house,’ he mutters before taking a long sip of beer.

‘Exonerated,’ he reminds his dad as he picks up the file with Derek’s name on it, detailing all of the allegations to his record. ‘Some people handle grief differently.’

‘Yeah,’ he says with a small nod as he moves the chicken and capsicum around on his plate, his appetite seemingly gone. ‘I’m giving Derek the benefit of the doubt – he’s been through a lot and he’s become a changed man – but if anything points towards him being the murderer then I’m putting my foot down, no ifs, ands or buts.’

‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from Sheriff Stilinski of Beacon Hills,’ he smirks as he stands to grab another bottle of beer from the fridge, twists the cap off and clinks the glass with his dad’s, more than ready to wind-down after a difficult day of going absolutely nowhere.

\--

The nature of Tredan Lahey’s case is unusual enough in the county to stay on the front page and in the local radio station for well over half a week. Animal attacks, of which there are many, are only ever given a cursory mention along with a warning to stay out of the preserve after dark – not that any of the teenage population listen for longer than a couple of days. Journalists and reporters are constantly harassing them over the phone and sometimes in person for more information regarding the progress of the investigation, often with questions and concerns about whether or not the citizens of Beacon Hills need to worry about gun-toting killers that have yet to be apprehended.

‘Rest assured that we’re doing our best to solve the case. If you have any information regarding the murder of Tredan Lahey then please don’t hesitate to call it in,’ Stiles hangs up and doesn’t let the speaker finish when she tries to get in another question that doesn’t at all involve the murder and was more on whether the staff shortages within the police has anything to do with the obvious lack of development. He holds back a sigh, tries not to look so visibly pestered as he rearranges the files on his desk to something resembling orderly, contemplating whether to pull the phone cord or not when it starts ringing again less than ten seconds later.

It’s been almost a week and they’re still on the same page as they were when this whole murder investigation started. Beacon Hills is far from an idyllic county but they’ve never really had to deal with a case that involves human murderers instead of animal-related deaths or something more of the supernatural sort. If werewolves or hunters were in any way involved then it would’ve been an easy enough fix but it’s not and Stiles worries this could more than just ruin the station’s case rating – his dad might lose his job.

The phone stops ringing and he breathes a sigh of relief, slouching down until his head is resting comfortably along the backrest to enjoy a moment’s reprieve. He considers getting a cup of coffee, something to prolong the inevitable for just a little bit longer but the second he pushes his chair back he ends up colliding into another person.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ He apologizes and rights himself before he topples out of the chair, looks up and sees his dad looking at him with a disgruntled expression and the slightest shakes of his head.

‘We could’ve avoided that if you’d just pick up my call,’ John points out, voice caught in-between amusement and exasperation.

‘My phone has been ringing non-stop since I got in to do some paperwork. I’ve fielded so many calls from journalists and reporters – most of them unimportant and completely irrelevant unless you want to count pissing me off – and I haven’t even managed to make a start on said paperwork.’

‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’

Stiles finally notices how exhausted his dad looks and tries to brush off the sudden rise of guilt he feels building up in his chest but doesn’t quite manage it. He swallows, bites back the urge to spill secrets that aren’t completely his to share and instead asks, ‘what did you call me for, just now?’

If John at all notices the shifts in his demeanor then he thankfully doesn’t mention it, moving right on to his original intent. ‘I need you to head down to the coroner’s office for me. They said they’ve got something for me to see but I can’t leave the office for something as small as that so I’m pretty much shoving that duty onto you instead.’

‘Wow, thanks,’ he deadpans, raises an unimpressed eyebrow at his dad at this rare bout of laziness, though for good reason. As Sheriff of Beacon Hills he’s getting even more flack that the rest of the staff when dealing with the general public as well as the local journalists.

‘It’ll get you away from the phone,’ he offers and not two seconds after it’s mentioned it begins to ring.

Stiles immediately jumps for his jacket. ‘What was that, Sheriff? Something about the coroner’s office? You can count on me, Sir,’ and he’s out of the doors already picking his pockets for the keys to his cruiser, all the while ignoring the smirk on his dad’s face as he leaves.

He’s no stranger to visits down at the morgue although he’s usually accompanied by a senior officer if the trip is related to an ongoing case. The room mostly smells of chemicals but if the body is fresh enough, or maybe even old enough, then there’s always that stink of meat not unlike that of a butchery or the stench of decomposition.

The ride to the hospital doesn’t take long and with the afternoon’s lunch rush winding down he makes it there in roughly ten minutes.

He sees Melissa behind the nurses’ station on his way in, gives her a wave and a smile before moving on, not able to stay behind for a quick chat while he’s here on official police business rather than a casual visit. Stiles braces for the chill as he steps into the morgue, shuts the door behind him and then quickly makes his way towards the office located in the back. He passes the empty slab of metal and knocks on the door to announce himself, waits for a reply before stepping through the threshold.

‘I thought I spoke to Sheriff Stilinski?’ The female medical examiner asks as she peers at him through her glasses, eyes sharp and critical as she fixes her gaze on his name sewed under the BHPD badge on his shirt.

‘He couldn’t leave his office so he sent me in his stead,’ he tells her, catches the glint of her nametag on her medical coat reading “Sheila Choi” and immediately takes out a pen and pad of paper from the inside lining of his jacket. ‘I’ll write down any details you’ll like me to pass on.’

She shrugs, the motion dislodging a few locks of her jet-black hair from its’ messy bun. ‘Okay,’ she says good-naturedly as she picks up a thin file and steps past him back into the morgue towards the drawers where the bodies are stored. He almost jumps to the assumption of Tredan Lahey but he remembers they released the body a couple of days ago so Isaac could give his father a funeral. Surprisingly, a lot of people attended. Unsurprisingly, most of them were reporters hoping to sneak a few questions to Isaac, all of which were rebuffed.

She gives the handle of the drawer in the middle column a light tug before swinging it open and sliding out a tray with a covered body on top of it. He doesn’t know who or what to expect but he nods when he catches her pause just as her fingers slipped under the top of the sheet.

People come and go, some more abruptly than others – Aniyah Quinn is no exception. He hopes Boyd is alright.

‘How did she die?’ He asks as he mentally compares the old woman in front of him with the photos Boyd always keeps in his wallet.

‘That’s why I wanted Sheriff Stilinski to come in,’ she says, though she doesn’t sound put-off as she opens the file and immediately hands over a report with three sheets of paper stapled together. ‘Her toxicology results are abnormal, showing high signs of medication overdose of the drug atenolol. She has more than twice the daily recommendation of it in her system.’

Stiles takes in the graphs and charts detailing any and all irregularities, finds the part labeled atenolol and tracks its’ levels with furrowed eyebrows. He recognizes the drug, knows it’s used to treat cardiovascular diseases, though that’s the extent of his knowledge on it. ‘Symptoms of overdose include?’

‘Hypoglycemia, severe hypotension, shock, acute heart failure which may lead to death if not treated immediately – I’m retracting the doctor’s statement; she did not die of a natural heart-attack.’

He tightens his grip on the documents he has in his hands, enough to slightly crinkle the pages but he stops before he ruins the integrity of the papers as he passes them back to Sheila to slip back in the folder. ‘You want us to open an investigation,’ he doesn’t scowl but it’s a near thing.

‘I’m saying her death is deliberate,’ she tells him as she pulls the white sheet back to cover the body up. ‘Her wrist monitor has been regular up until about a week ago when her heart-rate began to drop at a steady pace. It wasn’t anything unusual, or at least the nurses didn’t think so since they remained within normal parameters. It wasn’t until I got her toxicology report back that I knew that these two are connected.’

‘I understand,’ he nods, feels sick to his stomach that he has to bring another friend into the station to interrogate him on whether or not he was responsible for the death of his grandmother. Stiles knows Boyd like he knows Isaac; family means a lot to them and they would never do anything to intentionally hurt them.

All he needs to do is prove this.

He gives his dad a call while Sheila slides the body back into the drawer and shuts the door with the same care as she did when she opened it. She gives him the report, quietly tells him to take it back to the station to pass to the sheriff before disappearing back into her office. When his call is picked up he doesn’t dilly-dally with greetings, choosing to dive right in with what he learned while he was with the medical examiner.

As soon as he fills his dad in on every bit of information he thinks is vital John doesn’t waste time getting a team together and including Stiles on speaker phone to the proceedings.

‘We need to find out her prescriptions. Rodgers, I need you to contact the pharmacy; check all medicinal records regarding Aniyah Quinn. Elliot, put an ABP on Vernon Boyd; we’re going to need to bring him in for questioning. Stilinski, you’re closest to the house; I need you to go over there and start cordoning off the area. CSU will join you once I call them in – you know the rest.’

There’s a series of ‘Yes, Sheriff’ from everybody before he ends the call. Stiles tucks the file under his arm as he leaves the morgue, passing the nurses’ station again as he’s heading out. He doesn’t see Melissa again but pays it no mind as he pulls out the car keys, contemplating whether or not to call Derek to let him know what they’ve got on Boyd but ultimately decides against it. Unless there’s an inkling towards the supernatural he’s not going to involve the pack in police business.

He arrives in just over ten minutes and parks in the empty driveway of the house with gloves on and a roll of yellow tape in hand. Stiles has only just finished the second circle around the property when he sees another vehicle pull up behind his car and a team of men and women exit with toolboxes and cameras on the ready. After that, everything is a rush of activity.

Stiles tries to breathe but the smell of old perfume and released bowel movements within the house, concentrated in the living room, makes his stomach recoil. It feels worse because this time, unlike Tredan Lahey, he personally knows the victim.

\--

Vernon Boyd has always been quiet, introverted, and the kind of person who chooses his words carefully before speaking. Most people consider him to be rather stoic and would never consider playing a round of Texas Hold’em with him – but it’s not difficult to see past his poker face after a few years of acquaintance, though. It’s always been something Stiles admires – his calm demeanor and his ability to keep a level-head – but he knows it’s going to be Boyd’s downfall; his silence is as good as a guilty convict.

‘Remember what we talked about,’ John tells him as he lays a firm hand on his shoulder, grips hard and gives him a companionable shake to loosen the tension in his body.

Stiles exhales heavily and nods, keeps his eyes focused on Boyd sitting in the interrogation room just beyond the two-way mirror. He knows Boyd is completely aware of what they’re saying, of where they’re standing, of what they’re accusing him of. If it were anybody but Stiles watching him right now then nobody would’ve been able to tell that Boyd is just as nervous and scared as Isaac had been when the blond had been brought in for questioning, too. Unlike last time, it isn’t going to be as simple as providing an alibi and having it confirmed. This time, there is motive involved.

He watches as his dad lets go of his shoulder and reappears in the next room with a sizeable folder and a clear medicine bag in hand. John doesn’t sit, opts to stand behind the table separating them with his attention mostly focused on the pages and pages of gathered evidence in his hands.

There’s a small shift in Boyd’s posture and Stiles catches him curling his fingers under the table. His dad can’t see it but he knows. He knows Boyd feels like prey.

‘Breathe,’ he murmurs under his breath and watches as Boyd’s breathing deepens and evens out. After what feels like an intense five minutes of absolute silence from both parties, Sheriff Stilinski eventually speaks, pulling out various pieces of papers to lie across the table, all of which are facing Boyd.

‘I’d like for you to read for me what’s been highlighted on the first page.’

Boyd’s gaze shifts from the sheriff to the paper as he slowly reaches for it with both hands, calm and steady as he reads, ‘Aniyah Rosa Quinn, aged 78, pronounced dead on Monday at 1:28PM, 19th August 2013. Cause of death – heart failure.’

‘Second page.’

He picks up the second page and puts it in front of the first, his eyes momentarily flitting towards the sheriff before looking back down. ‘Coroner’s report – high levels of atenolol found within the system of the deceased. Retraction of original statement – cause of death: drug overdose,’ he finishes, voice cracking once at the end.

‘Third page.’

Boyd’s hands are shaking as he pulls the third page across the table, his fingers creasing the edges as his voice trembles. ‘Crushed atenonlol tablets found in capsulated form within container meant for methyl sulfonyl methane, otherwise known as MSM, to treat osteo arthritis.’

Sheriff Stilinski moves to take out two bottles from the medicine bag, placing it on the desk with the labels facing Boyd. ‘I’m sure you’re aware your grandmother left you a sizeable inheritance in her will. That, along with her life insurance, will give you a hefty sum of almost a million dollars.’

Boyd shakes his head, his calm demeanor gone only to be replaced with despair, fear and grief. ‘I didn’t kill her.’

John frowns, voice full of skepticism as he tells him, ‘I’m afraid the evidence says otherwise.’

Stiles closes his eyes and listens to the harsh crinkle of papers as they’re crushed within Boyd’s grip, tries to breathe around the sudden clench he feels in his lungs.

\--

Derek’s car is the only one parked outside the loft when Stiles arrives although he knows it doesn’t guarantee that he’ll be alone. He plows on regardless of whether he’ll be speaking in front of more than one person or not as he heads inside, opting to go via the stairwell rather than the rusty elevator. As soon as he’s in clear view of the front door he sees Derek already waiting for him with clenched fists and a pinched expression.

Stiles pushes him back inside none too gently and shuts the door behind him, slips the latch onto the slide-lock and exhales, trying to calm himself after a long day of jumping from one conclusion to another. He tries to gather the right words, tries to figure out the best way to start the conversation, which direction to go, which route to take. He decides for the blunt and brutal approach.

‘What are you hiding?’

Derek’s knuckles pale under the accusation but his voice remains steady as he answers him, ‘Nothing.’

‘Then why are people dying? Why is it, by some sheer stroke of shit luck, that they’re all related to the Betas that are a part of your pack?’

He clenches his jaw, bites down repeatedly as he exhales heavily through his nose. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We need to figure this out before someone else dies, before somebody ends up going to jail for a crime they would never in their right mind commit. Someone is out to destroy your pack one Beta at a time and we need to find out who they are.’

Derek shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed in an expression of frustration and confusion. ‘I don’t know anybody who would—’

‘That. Is. A. Lie,’ he punctuates with a jab of his finger at the button of Derek’s jacket. ‘Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, I don’t want there to be a third time to prove there’s an obvious pattern going on here. Now, _think_ – who do you know is after you?’

A low rumble makes its way out of Derek’s throat as his fangs lengthen. ‘Asking the same question in different ways isn’t going to change my answer.’

 _No_ , he thinks, but he had been hoping for something more than a lousy “I don’t know” because that kind of answer isn’t going to save Boyd, isn’t going to give Isaac the closure he so needs, isn’t going to help everybody else within the pack.

“ _I don’t know_ ” is as good as throwing in the white flag.

\-----

It’s disturbing how much more time he spends in the cemetery than in an actual park in comparison. They both have acres of grass, trees, bushes and shrubs, they both have benches and tables, some wooden and some made of stone, and they both even have monuments to commemorate the dead. The only difference between the two is the impression it leaves and the atmosphere that surrounds it. Parks are considered bright, airy and full of laughter while juxtaposed to that cemeteries are thought to be dark, heavy and despondent.

People who walk through the cemetery walks amongst the dead – that’s why the character it has is so miserable, lonely, depressed.

It’s hard to feel otherwise when he’s looking down at the graves of his mother, his brother and the freshly turned soil above his father’s plot. Isaac can’t find it within himself to complain, not when he’s the only one left alive, not when he’s got his own life to live.

He hasn’t even reach his quarter century yet and he already feels older than most people his age, has already experienced things no normal human being will ever encounter and has already seen things that nobody in their wildest imaginations would hope to live through.

A horror movie will never compare.

Isaac thinks they’re lucky but if asked again whether or not he’d choose this life over the other he’d choose the bite over feeling helpless any day.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update even though I promised to try and keep it to once a week. DX MY WORDS MEAN NOTHING!!! -sobs-

 

Beacon Hills is a small county but the preserve surrounding it is easily ten times the size of the town itself, going on for miles and miles and miles in all directions. The next town proper takes hours to drive to but there are gas stations and the odd motel littered in-between to act as pit-stops every now and again.

The good thing about Beacon Hills being a small county is that there are very little hints of unusual activity, except in the odd month or two where animal-related killings are uncommonly high. The bad thing about the preserve being so large is that, inevitably, they’re going to find another dead body in the woods.

It’s an old one, at least a few years from the looks of it – just skin and bones and tattered clothes left behind from what hasn’t been eaten away by bugs and the forest wild life. When the team carefully extracts the skeleton out from its’ grave the bones rattle forlornly. There, nestled in the cavity of the skull, is a single bullet.

John takes one look at the misshapen metal, curls his palm around it, and orders the men and women to gather: nobody outside of this immediate team is to know about the body.  _No one._

\-----

**Chapter 6**

\-----

The pharmacy holds no leads – no tempering of evidence, no dishonesty or corruption within the staff and the treatment of their customers, and no suspicious activity between the aisles. The medication that was prescribed to Aniyah Rosa Quinn was exact; no more and no less than what was documented down in the systems, but that doesn’t explain the extra bottle of crushed atenolol tablets found in an innocuous bottle in her bathroom cabinet.

Stiles rewinds and plays back the video recordings of the proceedings within the pharmacy but no matter how many times he watches it over and over again he can’t find a single thing out of place or a single action out of character. He’s gone through months’ worth of footage the days before and after the death of Boyd’s grandmother but there’s nothing to be found.

Something is missing, but he doesn’t know what.

Money is a huge motivator – people have killed for less – it’s what makes the world go round and it’s one of the basic human compulsions behind committing a murder, but he knows Boyd; knows he would never do such a thing.

People call him biased.

He holds back a disgruntled huff as he pushes away from his desk, maneuvers around the other tables and chairs on the station floor before stopping in front of the two desks shoved together where Rodgers and Elliot are speaking into their phones in clipped tones.

‘Any updates on the warrant, yet?’ He asks as soon as Rodger’s phone is placed back on its cradle.

The older man sighs at him, only partially put-upon by his appearance, a sentiment which is echoed on Elliot’s own face as he gestures at them to keep their voices down to a minimum. ‘Stilinski, kid, they’re still processing it. I told you I’ll let you know the minute, no, the _second_ it comes through. Just sit your ass down and do something else that doesn’t require you to stare at those videos. Your eyes are stupidly red,’ he grumbles out even though his own light-colored eyes are lined with tired veins.

Stiles breathes harshly through his nose as he rubs the corner of his eyes in a vain attempt to rid the soreness he’s only just noticed now. ‘It didn’t take us half as long to get the warrant for those pharmacy videos,’ he can’t help but complain as he steals the seat from the next unoccupied desk over and settles down on it.

Rodger’s expression shifts to one of empathy as he shakes his head, running a hand through his carefully-styled hair that he’d only just recently dyed back to brunet to hide the premature grey lines. ‘That’s because it wasn’t just speculation; Vernon Boyd goes there every month to pick up the deceased’s prescriptions. You should know; you’ve watched the videos; he goes in like clock-work.’

It’s true, and the store’s system confirms it, too. Boyd goes in every third Tuesday of the month to pick up and pay for his grandmother’s medicine and he’s never once deviated from this mid-morning schedule, not even for college that's two and a half hours away by car.

‘Getting the warrant to retrieve the security feeds and records from all the pharmacies, medical centers as well as the hospital in Beacon Hills requires a heck of a lot more than just conjecture,’ Rodgers continues as he gets up, takes his empty coffee cup and nods his head for Stiles to follow him into the staff’s break room. The older man takes Elliot’s empty cup with him when the other prompts him with both hands clapped together in a begging gesture. ‘Elliot is still coordinating with most of them to see if any atenolol stocks have gone missing within the last couple of months. I reckon as soon as we narrow down the list of possibilities then the waiting time for the warrant won’t take quite so long,’ he explains as he lazily rinses the cups out before pouring in a warm cup of filtered coffee into his own, though he grimaces at the first sip before dumping it all out to make a fresh batch.

‘You’re good at profiling,’ Stiles starts and watches as the older man pulls open a new bag of grounded coffee beans and dumps it into the coffee maker with a bit too much zealous, ‘what’s your opinion on Vernon Boyd?’

‘Tough childhood, not academically smart but makes up for it with hard work and perseverance. Seems like a good guy,’ he finishes with a shrug as he makes for the switch and listens as the hot water canister begins to bubble and boil away.

‘ _Seems_ like a good guy?’ Stiles repeats with a slight head-tilt and a narrowed expression. He's not offended on Boyd's behalf but he definitely wants more than just "seems".

Rodgers takes in a slow deep breath, as though biding for time to carefully weigh the words in his mind. ‘They say that you are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.’

Stiles nods in understanding but waves his hand in a rolling gesture for him to continue. ‘Your point?’

‘He’s been seen quite often with Derek Hale and Erica Reyes,’ he says as he fixes Stiles with a pointed look, half in consideration and half in something else but he turns his attention back to the black coffee that’s just starting to trickle out before Stiles can identify the emotion.

‘I understand Derek Hale, but Erica Reyes?’

‘You weren’t here before but she used to be meek,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘No, not meek but quieter; prefers to stay on the sidelines, a kind of wallflower but without any of the perks.’

That doesn’t sound at all like the Erica he knows. He wonders if they're even talking about the same person.

Thankfully, Rodgers is quick to explain. ‘She went through a radical change after she met Derek Hale. Almost a complete one-eighty shift in personality, kind of as though he gave her the key to unlock the cages that held in her true colors.’

Stiles tries not to snort and manages to hold it back, just barely. ‘You’re trying to say that Derek Hale, from observations through Erica Reyes, is a growing bad influence on Vernon Boyd – that he might’ve somehow encouraged him, however subtly, to commit murder.’

‘I’m saying that we need to pay closer attention to the people he has in his life,’ he tells him as he replaces the coffee pot with Elliot’s cup, unable to wait the full ten minutes for a full pot to percolate. ‘I believe that Vernon Boyd did not murder his grandmother, but the evidence is piling up against him. If all goes wrong then he’s looking at 15 years to life imprisonment. Guilty or not.'

He scowls but watches as Rodgers expertly switches Elliot’s cup out with his own, only half-full with coffee but pours in an equal amount of milk and a small dash of sugar before stirring lightly. As soon as three-quarters of his own cup is full of black coffee he leaves, with Stiles following him back out into the main station floor. ‘You don’t have to remind me what’s at stake.’

‘Perspective,’ he says just as he sits back down at his desk, puts the cup of milky coffee on Elliot’s side and takes a sip of his own, ‘knowing the consequences and living with them.’

‘Yeah,’ he frowns at the thought of seeing Boyd behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s just about to return to his own table when he catches the tail-end of Elliot’s phone conversation. ‘What did you say about the pharmacy on Walker Street?’

‘Missing stock, unexplained,’ Elliot tells him in a hurried voice as he pulls on his jacket and tries to gulp down his coffee at the same time, almost spilling some onto his uniform as he drinks as though he hasn't had a drop of water in years. ‘Three guesses as to what and the first two don’t count.’

‘You’re so funny,’ Stiles snipes half-heartedly and retreats back to his desk, waiting for the next lead to come his way when suddenly all the office telephones start ringing off the hook. There’s a moment of tense stillness as he shares a look with Rodgers and confusion from everybody as they stare at the phones in mild horror before they hurry to pick up the incoming calls, all loud voices of professionalism and authority.

‘This is the Beacon Hills Police Department—’

‘Beacon Hills Police Department, how can I assist?’

‘Can you please repeat that, sir?’

‘I can’t understand you , ma’am, can you please—’

‘Car accident, you said?’

‘—intersection of Wimbley and Alcott?’

‘We’ll have officers dispatched soon.’

Stiles drops the phone hastily back onto its perch with a loud crack of plastic. The phone rings again barely a second later but he ignores it when he hears his dad already calling out orders and delegating people to help with traffic flow from the threshold of his office, expression pinched but alert.

He ends up sitting shotgun in Rodgers’ patrol car as they speed along the roads in the direction of the traffic collision, sirens blaring above them. The information they managed to gather in just the span of a few minutes paints a gruesome picture of a hit-and-run, big car vs. little car.

There’s an ambulance, two police vehicles and a barricade of yellow tape already cordoning off the intersection by the time they arrive. A large crowd of people have gathered around, some of them crying while others stand in shocked silence as they take in the wreckage of broken glass, twisted metal and little rivers of blood coming from the deformed car. Another police vehicle pulls up next to the yellow tape, two officers already stepping out to push people out of the way to make room for the two ambulances and two fire brigades behind them.

Stiles moves quickly after Rodgers to the first ambulance where the paramedics are already treating two distraught people, male and female, with blood on their faces and clothes torn in several places. The woman is crying while the man is screaming at the pain of what seems to be a dislocated shoulder but they dont' appear to be the victims of the crashed vehicle.

‘I’m Deputy Rodgers and this is Officer Stilinski, are you able to answer a few questions for us?’ He directs this to the woman, still crying but the least visibly injured of the two.

‘Save your questions for later! We’re leaving for the hospital now,’ the male paramedic tells them as he’s strapping the man into the gurney after having braced his arm closer to his body for what will be a rough ride.

‘Stilinski, stay here; I’ll go with them and see what I can get. Take this,’ he rushes as he digs into the pocket of his jacket and hands over the keys to his car. ‘See if anybody in the crowd can help you but otherwise keep clear of the crash site.’ He doesn’t wait for an answer as he slips in after the paramedics and slams the door behind them. The sirens are back on to full blast and they’re off, screaming their way down Wimbley Street for the fastest route towards the hospital.

He looks around the intersection as he pockets the keys and spots the firemen try to get the mangled door of the wrecked Almera Tino Estate to open with some heavy machinery. He doesn’t stay to watch, instead hurries towards the crowd closest to him. ‘Excuse me, I’m Officer Stilinski, did any of you witness the incident as it occurred?’

‘It was a big car, black,’ a young teenager of barely 18 says as she points a shaky finger down Alcott Street. ‘I saw it drive down Alcott, that’s it.’

‘It was a Ford Ranger, I’m pretty sure,’ another man contributes while a few people murmur their assent, ‘huge car; the Nissan didn’t stand a chance.’

There’s a heavy crunch of metal and Stiles turns around to see two firemen trying to operate and maneuver the machinery around to get the passenger side door of the crumpled silver Nissan to open as quickly as possible without compromising the ruined structure of the vehicle. A woman’s crying scream is heard from inside the car and he hears someone throw up from somewhere in the crowd.

‘Did you see the license plate? Whoever was driving the Ford? Anything at all?’ He tries but all his questions are met with mumbles that don’t quite answer anything and shakes of the head that don’t help him at all. Stiles thanks them for their time and tries to remember if this intersection has any traffic cameras. He knows they’re only stationed in a few places but he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this isn’t one of them.

‘Jones, Officer Jones,’ he says into his radio transmitter, ‘do you know if there are any video surveillance cameras on the intersection of Wimbley and Alcott?’

There’s a crackle of static before a familiar voice answers him. ‘That’s a negative – we’ve already checked all the footage to see if any damaged or wrecked cars passed by within minutes of the collision but whoever they are either knew where they’re stationed or they got shit-lucky.’

‘Fuck,’ he swears to himself and quickly thanks Jones before running towards the yellow tape where he can see the ICU is trying to get through. He clears a path and ushers the bystanders away so the car can pass. Stiles is just about to find another senior officer to confer with until he sees his dad on the other side of the intersection already coordinating with the remaining police officers on the scene. He rushes to see what else he can help with and listens as the sheriff tells them to gather as many statements as they possibly can.

‘See if anybody recorded the incident. I want everything this crowd has to offer; every single detail. I want to know which way the car went, I want to know the make and model of the vehicle, I want to know the license plate, and I want to know who was behind that wheel. Go!’ They all fan out in several different directions and Stiles quickly grabs onto his dad’s shoulder before he disappears with the others into the crowd.

‘Sheriff, I’ve already talked to some of the witnesses and they told me that it was a black Ford Ranger, fleeing down Alcott Street after the crash. Jones can’t find any footage of the vehicle as it fled.’

His dad hisses under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair with a deep frown on his face. Eventually, John turns back to him and tells him, ‘Go see if any other witnesses can confirm what you found,’ he orders with a grim expression on his face before dismissing him. Stiles is only half paying attention to his dad as he’s walking away, listens as an APB is put out for any large vehicles with serious damage sustained on the front end of the car.

There’s a terrible groan and screech of metal as the door comes away free from the wrecked vehicle. The firemen are quick to make room for the paramedics to do their job, checking for vitals of the patients and administering drugs if need be. As soon as Stiles catches a glimpse of the car crash victims he feels his stomach bottom out at the sight of the woman with blood raining down her face, her blonde haired drenched in it and down her ruined sundress. He barely has the presence of mind to take out his phone and send off a text to Derek with just two words.

_Contact Erica._

\--

If Derek had any doubts that someone is out to destroy the pack one family at a time then it’s all gone, erased and replaced with the feeling of conviction, no more shred of hesitation.

Stiles knows it isn’t going to be easy to organize the pack when half of them are scattered two and a half hours away from Beacon Hills, and especially with Erica currently staying in New York crying with despair from the physical wrenching pain she feels in her heart.

He can see the stress weighing down on Derek’s shoulders as he listens to her cry over the phone, trying to placate her with soft murmurs. Not once does Derek apologize because he knows; everybody’s pain is different and no amount of offered condolences will help ease that ache.

They’re all speaking from experience.

Stiles sees more than he hears the second Erica calms – Derek’s posture loses that tiny slump, his back straightening as his voice regains surety – and he watches the physical changes occur in Derek as though he’s molding into a second skin; something he’s more comfortable with. He ends the call with a foreword that someone from the police department will contact her soon before finishing the conversation with a press of a button.

‘You need to call Scott,’ Derek tells him as soon as he turns away from the windows to face Stiles.

He nods as he withdraws his phone from his pocket, fingers swiping across the screen to find Scott’s name on his contacts list. ‘Chris needs to know, so does Allison.’

‘I’ll talk to Chris. He’ll talk to Allison once he’s caught up.’

Stiles doesn’t sigh out in frustration but he can feel a shake building beneath his sternum, making him tense with dread just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He listens to the ringing on his phone and counts the numbers as it passes, reaches the fourth ring when he hears Derek already speaking to Chris on the far end of the living room.

On the seventh ring, just as he’s about to hang up and try again, Scott finally picks up.

‘Hey, hi, what’s up?’ He greets, sounding pleased but out of breath.

‘Scott, listen; something’s going on in Beacon Hills and we’re being targeted.’

‘Who are we—by who? Whom? Whatever.’ He asks, voice grim and steady in the face of a threat.

He shakes his head and catches Derek making small gestures as he speaks even though it can’t be seen. ‘We don’t know yet. Isaac’s dad is dead and so is Boyd’s grandma. Erica’s parents are in critical condition down at the hospital.’

‘Shit,’ he swears in panic, ‘what about my mum?’

‘She’s fine,’ for now, he doesn’t say, not wanting to worry Scott more than he already has. ‘I need you to come back to Beacon Hills as soon as you can. There’s something going on and we need to figure this out before someone else gets hurt. You need to work with Derek and the others to see if this is a supernatural grudge or something else. I’ll be working from the police side of things.’

‘Okay,’ he says and repeats the word twice more before getting on with the program. ‘What about the others?’

‘Isaac’s been filled in, so has Erica. Derek’s talking to Chris right now who’ll pass the message onto Allison.’

‘Okay,’ he repeats again before he pauses and asks quietly, the softness of his voice belying the tension in the air, ‘what about Boyd?’

Stiles swallows and steels himself to be the bearer of bad news. ‘Boyd is in custody for the suspected murder of his grandmother.’ He listens to Scott swear profusely on the other end of the line before calming down again.

‘We’re going to figure this out,’ he finishes with conviction.

‘We will,’ he echoes the sentiment before telling Scott to make it back as quickly and as safely as he can before ending the call. He sees Derek still in the middle of explaining things to Chris and decides to take out his work phone and tapping out a series of numbers he learned to memorize years ago. He’s barely into the second ring when he hears Erica’s voice, soft but steady, greeting him.

‘Miss Erica Reyes, this is Officer Stilinski. I’m sorry to inform you that your parents were recently in a car collision. They’re currently in the hospital in intensive care and we’d like for you to return to Beacon Hills as soon as possible.’

Her voice grows shaky as she speaks into the phone but she breaks down in tears again before she can finish what she means to say. By the end of the call he feels wrung-out and exhausted, weary and drained. When he catches the time on his phone before the screen fades back to black he knows he’s only got another quarter of an hour of rest left before needing to head back down to the station for the start of his double-shift.

‘Eat something before you go,’ Derek tells him before he makes it to the door.

He sighs, ‘Derek—’

‘Five minutes. I know you can make something in five minutes.’

He sighs again and shakes his head as he steps into the kitchen, rifles around the cupboards and fridge until he finds all the things he need to make a fried egg and cheese toasted sandwich. He ends up making two; one for himself and the other for Derek because he knows he’s not the only person whose regular eating schedule has fallen by the wayside since things slowly started turning to shit.

‘It’s good,’ Derek comments around a mouthful, a smear of ketchup caught on the corner of his lips.

‘Damn right, it is.’

‘Should’ve taken you up on that offer when you asked me years ago.’

Stiles almost chokes on his food but ends up laughing at the memory of it. He’s thankful for the light mood; feels better about going back for another long 8-hour shift at the station. Everything doesn’t look quite as grim or as impossible as it’d seemed before now that he’s got food in his stomach and a shared smile on his face while sitting at the kitchen bar. It won’t last, not for long, but he’ll take it for what it is.

\-----

They took everything away from him – his phone, his wallet, his keys, his _freedom_ – but he’s surprisingly okay with this. He knows the others will help him, will prove his innocence for him, will do whatever it takes to convince his jailers to give him his life back. But it’s boring sitting in a small 9 by 7 foot cell on his own with nothing but a tightlipped police officer and a blinking security camera for company.

His grandma always told him that idle hands make the devil’s work – that’s why she’s always knitting something if she’s got nothing else to do. He doesn’t think it’s completely 100% true but he knows that if he’s going to be staying here for the foreseeable future then he’s going to need something to ward the demons away.

So Boyd asks for a bible.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hectic week since I last posted. How long ago was that? One and a half weeks, maybe? Going on two, more like. ACK! Oh wells!! Here's another update and I hope you'll all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed slaving over it. HAHAHA~ I'm kidding - it was hard going but still fun to write. =D

 

He’s never felt so far out of his element, fighting an enemy he can’t see. He hates that none of the attacks so far are directly aimed at him, more focused on taking out the Betas of his pack instead, chipping at their defenses a little bit at a time. Whoever they are they’re smart, calculating, flittering back and forth the lines between the supernatural and the human world with a kind of ruthless grace that makes him shake with fear as well as fury.

Derek doesn’t know who they’re dealing with, doesn’t know what they want, doesn’t think the pack will come out the other side as one cohesive unit with so many battle lines drawn on the ground, all of them with blood. It’s getting far too personal, getting too far out of hand, getting too much to the point that something, or someone, is going to break, is going to give, is going to die.

More than ever, he wishes he has the guidance of his family to help him.

\-----

**Chapter 7**

\-----

The hospital is frantic with several police officers and nurses speaking over one another in a jumble of words Stiles can barely make out. The smell of blood is winning over the smell of antiseptic and the trails of it lining the floor are a horrible contrast to the pristine white environment. He can see two janitors working furiously to clean and sanitize the floors, one mopping away to get rid the worst of it while the other sprays a generous coating of sterilizer on the floor before wiping it clean. He bypasses the nurses, police officers, and janitors towards the operating rooms, following the wheel tracks on the floor until he reaches the empty waiting room.

He shakes his head and doubles back until he finds his dad and a few other police officers in a large ward lined with beds, sliding curtains, IV drips, heart monitors and so on. Their backs are to him but he can pick out his dad’s voice over the others asking for clarification from the lady he recognizes as the same one who’d been crying at the crash site on Wimbley and Alcott. The male is two beds over with a doctor, two nurses and an officer standing nearby.

‘We need you back at the station,’ Rodgers grabs hold of his bicep before he can get any further into the room.

‘And man the fort?’ He quips.

‘Exactly,’ he finishes and dismisses him with a nudge of his head down the corridor to where the exit is located.  

Stiles goes begrudgingly but he knows that too many cooks spoil the soup and with almost the entire BHPD right here in the hospital he thinks it could probably benefit with one less in the building. As he’s leaving he spots Melissa by the nurses’ station looking a little worse for wear but she still smiles and waves as he’s passing by.

He needs to make a stop at the gas station first, needing to fuel up before the gauge goes anymore below that second-to-last line and make the warning light pop up on his dash. Even with a county as small as Beacon Hills the constant travelling back and forth is making his patrol car guzzle down petrol almost as much as a rally racecar.

There’s a familiar SUV when he pulls up at the first available pump and he spots Chris inside the shop waiting behind one other person to pay for the gas. He goes through the monotonous act of refueling, no longer paying attention at the amount of petrol he goes through every week, if only for the sake of his conscience about the environment.

‘Stiles,’ the older man greets the same instance the pump clicks off.

‘How are you?’ He asks conversationally as he screws the cap back on before turning around to put the nozzle back in its place.

‘Worried,’ he replies with a pinched expression. ‘Maybe you can give me an update on what’s going on.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on, Chris,’ he answers truthfully but from the deepening frown on the other man’s face it’s obviously not the answer he wanted to hear. ‘I’m doing the best I can on my side of things. If you want to help, you should coordinate with Derek and the others,’ he suggests as he pulls out his wallet and steps past him towards the shop.

‘We can’t just rely on you for everything,’ Chris tells him before he gets too far out of earshot, ‘it’ll be good if we had another set of eyes in there with you.’

Stiles pauses and backtracks towards the older man, enough so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice when he tells him with a scowl, ‘I’m not getting my dad involved in any of this, you understand me? It’s bad enough that I was hardly given the choice,’ he seethes as he eyes the ring adorning Chris’ finger.

‘Not telling him isn’t giving him a choice, either.’

He fights back the urge to make a scene in the middle of a semi-crowded gas station. Instead he simply grits his teeth and walks away.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it but the cons of his father knowing largely outweigh the pros. He knows it would also put his dad in a difficult position as sheriff of the county – there’s no way he can abide by the unwritten laws of the supernatural world and the Code of the hunters and be _okay_ with it.

There’s another part of him that is convinced that there’s no way his dad will be okay with him being a part of it, either.

Chris is gone by the time he’s paid for the petrol and is on his way back to his car but his voice is still in his head repeating over and over again: _Not telling him isn’t giving him a choice, either._ It’s a good point but Stiles is adamant that ignorance is bliss, though he knows the consequences of his actions will, one day, rear its ugly head at him and make him pay for it.

Barbara is still in the exact same place behind the receptionists’ desk when he steps back through the doors into the police station, still fielding incoming calls, furiously taking down messages and trying to multi-task that with computer work, her usually immaculate hair coming undone. She snaps her fingers at him as soon as she spots him, pointing a finger down in the general direction of the break room and wordlessly demanding a refill of coffee with a wave of her empty porcelain cup.

He rolls his eyes as he takes the cup but can hardly hide the smile on his face as he drops off his jacket by his desk first, hanging it off the backrest, before walking the short distance into the staff’s break room. The leftover coffee is completely cold when he lightly taps his fingers along the glass to check it so he doesn’t feel too guilty about dumping the whole thing out into the sink, even though it’s still mostly full, to start on a new batch.

As soon as he’s gotten the machine ready for brewing he leans with his back on the counter to catch a breather and tries to focus on the sound of boiling water to drown out the piercing screech of metal as it’s being ripped and torn away, punctuated by the scream that came from Erica’s mother.

Stiles has only met her parents once before, having accidentally bumped into them at a casual family restaurant some couple of years ago, and the disapproval on their faces as Erica tried to introduce everybody to each other has been his only image of them for a long time. The smiles on their faces had been strained and Stiles could see how disheartened Erica was when it became obvious how little her parents thought of the friends she has in her life. Their relationship withered somewhat after that meeting but Erica still tries to maintain a connection with them, always made the effort to call them at least once a week, even just for something as mundane as small chat.

Just like Isaac and Boyd, family means everything to Erica, too.

And now they’re in surgery fighting for their lives.

Stiles steels himself for the next 8 grueling hours of work. There’s a lot that needs to be done and a lot of investigations to put together now that it’s obvious to him that they’re all connected. He can’t open his mouth and tell his dad about it because that would mean explaining things that aren’t all his to explain, giving details away and exposing a world that his dad is completely blissfully unaware even exists – most importantly, it'll end up pointing the finger at Derek and possibly painting him in an even worse light than he already has hovering over him.

It’s a can of worms he’s not ready to open yet, and there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to, would prefer to save his dad from that kind of trauma. He’s not sure how long he can keep this a secret but he’ll fight for it, for however long it takes.

There’s a stronger part of him that tells him to keep his mouth firmly shut no matter what because telling his dad means telling him what he used to be and what he used to do, how many people he killed, humans and werewolves alike, to get to this point.

As soon as there’s enough coffee in the cup he switches the pot back into its place to catch the rest of it. He knows Barbara takes hers with a light dash of milk as well as two generous spoonfuls of raw sugar and when he passes it back to her she gives him a pleased smile and a soundless word of thanks before taking a quiet sip of it, careful not to dislodge the phone resting between her shoulder and ear.

He sits back by his desk, pulls over all the case files that have anything to do with Tredan Lahey and Aniyah Rosa Quinn to start compiling them together, using the current lack of police officers in the station to his advantage. He’s not sure how to explain why he’s combining two cases together when he has no definitive proof they’re even related in the first place if someone asks.

After an hour and a half he’s still nowhere close to figuring out the question of who is behind it or why they’re doing it. The pack is being picked off one by one, crippling them emotionally and weakening their core. He’s at another standstill and it frustrates him to no end that he can’t find a way to stop it or prevent another crisis from happening to them.

He stands abruptly, feels the bones of his back crack and protest at his sudden rise but he stretches out the kinks and slips the files into a lockable drawer before heading down to the holding cells, in part to seek a change in scenery and in part to see Boyd and if he’s doing okay.

‘Hey, McLeod,’ Stiles says as soon as he spots the disheveled blond doing paperwork while keeping guard of the lone detainee, ‘go for a coffee break or something. I’ll take over for a while.’

The older man smiles at his offer but it shifts to an apologetic expression as he says, ‘Sorry, Stilinski, your dad told us not to let you spend time in here with the suspect.’

Stiles almost scowls as he stops in the middle of the room, feeling a sudden bout of irritation and annoyance bubble in the pit of his stomach as he rewinds the words in his head, trying and failing not to feel exasperated by his dad. He tries to play it off as nonchalantly as possible but he knows he’s not fooling anyone even as he shrugs. ‘Your loss,’ he turns and walks back to the main station floor but he doesn’t doubt that Boyd will know just how angry he is just from the way his heart is beating. He’s halfway back to his desk when he sees a few deputies and other officers return back from the hospital while his dad is speaking to Barbara, half-talking and half-walking towards his office. A small bubble of fury rises in him and he decides to make a detour for his dad instead, holding the door open before it shuts on him.

‘What is it, Stiles?’ He asks as he sits behind his desk with a grunt and reaches for the button to start up the computer.

He feels his anger dissipate at the tired and pale look on his dad’s face but he forges on, grappling onto his annoyance with both hands. ‘It’s funny how I can’t even go relieve McLeod for 10 minutes.’

John turns his frown away from the reboot screen of his computer onto him. ‘You’re too close to Boyd,’ he sighs as he leans back on his chair and eases off when it starts creaking a little bit too much. ‘You’re a biased party and everyone here knows it.’

‘I get that I’m not allowed to see him, or speak to him, or hell, even be in the same _room_ as him but he’s not a criminal and he’s not a goddamn murderer, either.’ _So stop treating him like one_ , it goes unsaid.

‘I’m already giving you the benefit of the doubt by allowing you to stay on the team because God knows you’ll still dive right into the thick of it even if I forbid your participation in the investigation.’

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, manages to fight the urge to cross his arms in a fit of pique. ‘Like you gave Derek the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Don’t push it, son,’ he tells him sternly, his frown deepening just as the first signs of anger becomes apparent on his face.

 _Not telling him isn’t giving him a choice, either,_ Chris’ voice repeats in his head and he pulls back the urge to continue arguing his point.

‘Fine,’ he says, trying not to sound too petulant as he switches the subject to safer grounds as he falls back onto the chair in front of the desk separating them. ‘What did you find out from the hospital?’

John narrows his eyes at him but accepts the change in topic as he clicks around with his mouse to open up current case files. ‘Natalia, the girl, admits that she’s not well-versed in the various car models the world has to offer but she can confirm that it was a small silver Nissan and a large black Ford pick-up. Tina called in to tell me they managed to get a few tire tracks from the road and chips of black and red paint off the side of the Nissan where the vehicle collided into them. They’re running a search to see if the tire track matches what you said about it being a Ford Ranger.’

‘Red paint? Well, if it’s a custom paint job then maybe we can track down the garage or workshop that did it for them.’

His dad nods his head in agreement. ‘We haven’t got any license plates to run with so if it comes to that then we’ll just have to deal with it.’

‘What else did they tell you?’ He presses, feeling restless with too much energy buzzing under his skin.

‘They found suitcases and travel bags in the boot, a diary planner with “Surprise Erica” on today’s date along with plane tickets to New York.’

Stiles freezes and feels misery and hate pooling in his gut. He’s never felt so angry to the point of a full-body shake. It makes him want to get up and get back to work – put his energy to good use – do whatever it takes to find that person who’s causing pain and suffering on his friends and give them a violent death.

‘Stiles,’ his dad calls him, his voice cutting through his red haze. ‘Don’t let your emotions get the best of you.’ There’s a warning in there, as though he’s just one reason away from sending Stiles home.

He takes in a deep breath, holds it, repeats it once more and calms. ‘Ms. Erica Reyes informed me that she’ll be flying in sometime today. I’ll escort her here once she arrives.’

‘Good; maybe she can help us figure out if her parents have any enemies.’

Unlikely, he wants to say but a sudden knock on the door has the both of them looking at Jones as he steps around the door into the office, looking excited as he holds out a piece of paper for the sheriff to take. ‘I just got a call about a stolen car – black with a single red stripe, Ford Ranger, license plate HEB736.’

Stiles hears his dad mutter a curse under his breath as he stands to unclip his radio transmitter from his belt. ‘I’ll put an APB on it. Get Rodgers to drop whatever he’s doing – I want the three of you out there looking for it, too.’

He’s nodding as he stands just as Jones exits the office already yelling across the station floor to Rodgers, repeating what the sheriff just told him. Stiles listens as his dad lists out orders to any and all patrolling officers to be on the lookout for a black Ford Ranger with a single red stripe, license plate number: hotel, echo, bravo, 7-3-6, to be reported if spotted immediately.

‘Be careful out there, Stiles,’ his dad calls out to him before he shuts the door between them.

‘Yeah, dad, as long as you promise me you’ll do the same.’

‘Can’t get into much trouble sitting behind a desk,’ he tries to joke as he raps his knuckles along the table twice before his expression turns into one of resolve. ‘Remember what we talked about.’

‘Yeah,’ he finds himself repeating again, ‘I remember.’

\--

The car, as it turns out, doesn’t take them too long to find – all they have to do is follow the thick plume of black smoke until they reach the source of it.

Stiles is the first to arrive on scene shortly followed by Rodgers a few minutes after. He’s in the middle of a call requesting for a fire brigade while Rodgers gives the sheriff an update when Jones finally pulls up beside them, stepping out of the car with a wide-eyed look and his lips thinned in a grim line, phone in hand to take photos of the car even though it won’t be as good as an actual camera.

The heat is searing even from a distance and Stiles hopes the fire doesn’t spread into the trees because none of them are equipped to handle a forest fire if it comes down to it. Thankfully, the wind is minimal and the sky is just slightly overcast – not enough for rain but enough to keep the fires from burning too hot and too wildly.

A loud bang has the three of them reaching for their firearms until they pinpoint the sound as one of the window panels shattering under the intense heat. The vehicle rocks as the tires melt and deflate into the ground while the plastics twist and crack under the high temperature, creating deep fissures before splintering off and landing in a smoldering heap on the tarmac.

Eventually, not long later, two fire brigades arrive on scene with people in full gear already rushing to deal with the blaze before the large vehicle rolls to a complete stop. They stand well out of the way, careful not to trip over the hose lines as the men and women work together to contain the fire and stop it from spreading further.

As soon as the fire is put out they all spot a problem – the license plates are gone.

‘We’re not dealing with an ordinary hit-and-run; this feels too premeditated,’ Jones brings up as he swipes a finger across the screen of his phone to look through the photos but they’re too bright from the reds of the fire and showing hardly enough detail.

Stiles nods in agreement. ‘They went through the trouble of removing the license plates before setting the car on fire, most likely to get rid of any prints left behind, if any were left behind.’

‘I don’t think its luck that they knew where all the surveillance cameras are. They took the time to make sure they never drove past one, either,’ he continues as he hands the phone over for Stiles to look through.

He’s too busy squinting at the photos to notice that Rodgers is done talking on the radio but he can hear the shock in his voice as he says, ‘What the hell is going on here?’

The sound of approaching sirens has them looking away from the wreckage and down the road to see a police cruiser coming their way with another vehicle and a tow-truck trailing behind. It becomes a mess of activity as Sheriff Stilinski exits the vehicle and starts calling out orders to the forensics crew, telling Stiles to cordon off the area while Jones and Rodgers are left to deal with any traffic that might come and go their way before walking over to the captain of the fire brigade to get an update of the situation.

After handing back the phone, slipping on a pair of gloves and picking up a new roll of yellow tape Stiles starts to circle as much of the area as he can without closing off both lanes of the road. As he passes the front of the ruined car he can see the crumpled metal of the hood where it might’ve made impact with the Nissan. He’s certain they’ve found the right car but he doesn’t know where the driver might be, whether they hightailed it out of Beacon Hills in another getaway vehicle as soon as they ditched the stolen car or they ran through the woods to lose any pursuers they might have.

With his back turned to the three teams of people behind him he quickly sends off a text to Derek telling him to search the preserve near the county line and to let him know if he finds anything unusual.

As soon as he’s got a perimeter set up around the crime scene his dad finds him and tells him to go back to the station.

‘Elliot managed to get the warrant for the security cameras in the pharmacy on Walker Street. I want you to coordinate with him when you get back.’

‘Yes, Sheriff,’ he nods, already pulling his gloves off as he makes his way towards his car. He tosses the half-used roll onto the passenger side once he’s inside, one hand already twisting the keys in the ignition to start up the engine before maneuvering his way into a 3-point turn and driving back into town.

The chaos that was in the station earlier that day has simmered down to the normal amount of commotion. He sees Elliot concentrating on the computer screen in front of him, leaning so far forwards out of his seat that one nudge of the chair is probably enough to send him falling out of it.

‘Stilinski,’ he greets the second he hears Stiles drag Rodgers’ chair over to his desk to sit down next to him. ‘You’ve got an eye for detail; see if you can spot the difference.’

‘How far into the videos are you?’ He asks as he hunkers down to another agonizing session of watching a video that’s so old that the colors are bordering on monochrome.

‘I’m about two days prior to Aniyah Rosa Quinn’s death and still rewinding.’

Stiles frowns as he focuses on the video, keeping an eye out for anything that seemed out of the ordinary and for anybody that seemed remotely suspicious. ‘It’ll have to be gradual; the medication she was on required her to ingest them with food twice daily, morning and night. The buildup of atenolol in her system would take a few days to maybe about a week or more before it got to the point where it became a problem of overdose.’

‘We’ll split the workload – you take cameras 3 and 4 and I’ll watch 1 and 2.’ Which left him with the cameras focused on the main entrance as well as the till section.

He’s into the ninth day when he finally spots a kid of about 12 or so making a bit of a ruckus in the aisle close to the till area. It starts off with him looking around with something of a shifty expression as he “accidentally” bumps into a row of bottled sunscreen onto the floor and then again by tipping over the display tower of hats that was sent crashing into a row of shelves creating a mess of boxes littering across the floor. Stiles can’t help shaking his head as he pauses the video and rewinds it, gesturing for Elliot to watch the next 30 seconds of the clip with him.

‘Is there anything on your cameras for day 9?’ Stiles asks as soon as it’s over.

‘I’m on day 8. Hang on,’ he says as he clicks around on his computer until he’s on the same time and date as Stiles, playing it forward and watching as a short-haired brunette slips behind the pharmacy counter where the drugs are kept while there was nobody behind it and easily slips back out again without notice. ‘Her cowboy hat is blocking her face but we can bring the kid in and get a sketch artist to draw up a face.’

‘Let me get someone to clean up the image before we put an APB on him,’ he tells him, already opening up an email to Mahealani with a short version of the video attached and “Image cleanup required” on the subject line.

Elliot waves it off, already packing up the table and shoving the USB with the videos back into an evidence bag before Stiles is even halfway done with composing the email. ‘No need – that’s Byron; Debbie’s kid.’

He pauses before cancelling the whole thing without saving a draft. ‘I have no idea who that is but okay,’ he finishes with a shrug as he follows Jones out to hitch a ride in his patrol car.

The kid, when they find him mowing the lawn outside the front of his house, takes one good look as they’re walking in his direction before running down the street away from them. Stiles doesn’t give chase, not when the kid is a minor and he could end up with a lawsuit on police brutality or child abuse. He leaves Elliot to deal with the runaway lawnmower before it gets somebody into unnecessary trouble as he watches the boy flail his arms about running down the street knocking down rubbish cans, dodging mail boxes and almost tripping over other kids playing ball on the sidewalk looking like a bad extra in an action movie.

He holds back a sigh as he stands on the welcome mat by the front door and waits for Elliot to join him before knocking.

‘Just a minute!’ They hear a high-pitched shout coming from the inside followed by a scrap of a chair being pushed back and hurried footsteps coming towards them. Eventually, the door opens to reveal a disheveled brunette with her hair tied in a messy braid and wearing an apron with dustings of flour all over it. Her mouth is open as though she’s about to speak but then she heaves an insufferable sigh once she’s taken their uniforms in. ‘What did Ron do this time?’

After they explain why they need to bring her son to the station for she looks stricken and crestfallen but has no qualms about telling them of the locations of where they can possibly find Byron. Once they’ve given the sheriff an update of what’s going on and got together an extra two patrol cars to look out for the kid it takes them no more than an hour to bring him in.

Byron is a mess of nerves with John sitting opposite him in the interrogation room. The sheriff doesn’t even have to say anything before the kid spills everything.

‘She paid me fifty bucks! Half up front then the rest after the job is finished!’

Stiles rolls his eyes while Elliot groans in dismay; the kid sounds like he’s been watching too many crime dramas on TV.

‘She’s tall, leggy, real busty and brunette.’

 _Great_ , Stiles thinks, he’s pretty much described a good portion of the county’s demographic.

‘She’s got short hair, I remember, but she was wearing aviators so I couldn’t see her eyes but she spoke with a southern accent! She had this whole…cowgirl look to her, you know, from the hat down to the boots.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Elliot asks from where he’s standing beside Stiles.

He shakes his head. ‘Appearances can be changed and accents can be mimicked. He might be telling the truth but we don’t know for certain if who he’s describing will be who we’re after.’

‘Yeah, but this is the first real lead we’ve had in days – it’s better than going nowhere.’

It’s true but for now he has to appeal for Boyd’s release and give an update to Derek, especially now that he’s got a vague idea of who might be behind all the killings within the pack.

\-----

She’s in one of the window seats in the back of the plane with a single carry-on baggage tucked under the seat in front of her waiting for the last pre-flight checks to go through before takeoff when she feels it – the sudden loss of family and pack, as though it was forcibly wrenched from her soul. She almost crumples the photo she has in her hands at the horrible stab of pain she feels deep in her chest and she can’t help the tears that fall down her face, smearing her makeup, as she stares at the smiling faces of her parents.

Erica doesn’t know which of them died but all she knows is that her whole world is suddenly less than what it used to be before and that it’ll be another 7 hours before she finds out.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOWWWW!!! It's been, like, forever and a day since I last updated. Actually, I was quite surprised almost a month has passed since the last chapter and, you know how I love to make excuses, I WAS PARTIALLY BUSY WITH APPLYING TO GO BACK TO COLLEGE AND EVERYTHING THAT IT ENTAILS. UGHH, WHAT WAS I THINKING. SKDJFHSKHFKSHFKHS And then it's now the Christmas season which means DECORATING THE HOUSE AND CLEANING IT LIKE A CRAZY MOFO and also lots of parties abound. EHHEHEHEE. SO YES, procrastinating because of the joyous season. Tis the season to be jolly, after all. FALA-LALA-LA-LALA-LA-LA!
> 
> Wow, that 2% citrus cider is really getting to my head!! HO-HO-HO-HO-HO~~
> 
> P.S - I hope none of you actually read these notes.

 

He is a man of morals and self-governed policies – it’s so easy to slip, to let go, to bend the rules to his liking but he doesn’t, if all for the sake of Allison. He’s seen how effortless it is to ignore the Code, he’s seen how too much power corrupts and he’s seen how it twisted his father and his sister into people he no longer recognizes as his own family. He saw it happen to his wife, bore witness to the way Gerard’s influence made the woman he loved bitter and cruel. He hates how he lost her and he hates how he almost lost his daughter, too.

Chris isn’t thankful for a lot of things, but he’s thankful for Allison and he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, even if it means begging her to stay the hell away from Beacon Hills while he works with Derek to figure out who is picking them off one by one. He stopped thinking of himself as a hunter a long time ago but as he finds himself picking up that mantle once again he should’ve known that there’s really no leaving the game.

\-----

**Chapter 8**

\-----

Maria Reyes dies just an hour after she comes out of surgery and her cause of death is ruled as asphyxiation. A quick review of the security cameras at the end of the hallway outside her room at the time of her death gives them a prime suspect: Melissa McCall.

‘I have known Melissa almost my entire life and there is absolutely _no way_ she would do such a thing – those videos have been tempered with. I’ll bet my badge on it,’ his dad glowers as he turns away from the two-way mirrors looking into the interrogation room, his voice steadily rising in the face of all the chaos that’s happening in his town. Stiles can’t say with the same level of conviction that he knows her as well as his dad does but he can say with absolutely certainty that she is nothing if not kind.

‘I’m sorry, Sheriff, but if you can’t see this from an objective point of view then we, as your deputies, will have to ask you to step away from this case and let us handle it,’ Rodgers tells him with a firm voice, expression caught between remorse and resolve.

Elliot nods his agreement from behind him. ‘We’re sending the videos to Mahealani. He’s our best chance at finding out the authenticity of the videos.’

‘Fine, I’ll—’ he swallows and lets out a shaky exhale as he tries to calm down, ‘I’ll leave the case to the both of you. Let me know the second you find out whether those videos are genuine or not. You understand me?’

‘Yes, Sheriff,’ they nod before ushering John out of the room, away from the sound of Melissa trying to plead her case that she was nowhere near the room when Mrs. Reyes expired.

Stiles follows his dad into his office and shuts the door after them. He feels alight with nerves and tension, like a string pulled taut waiting to be released or snap under the strain. When his dad brings up a stale cup of coffee to his lips Stiles quickly takes it out of his hands before a sip is taken from it.

‘Coffee is just going to make it worse, dad,’ he murmurs softly and watches as the older man slouches forward in his seat with his head in his hands, looking as if he’s got the world on his shoulders. ‘You and I both know Melissa didn’t do it. We just need to prove it and find out who did.’

‘I know,’ he repeats twice more before lowering his hands and idly tapping his fingers along the grain of the desk. ‘It’s just…it doesn’t make sense.’

‘It will,’ he promises. ‘We’re just too overwhelmed with too many things happening all at once.’

‘The Reyes: they’re not rich, they’re not hugely important; they’re average folk,’ John tells him with a glassy-eyed stare as he rubs along the light stubble growing along his chin, his mind elsewhere. ‘This is too bizarre – the same as Tredan Lahey’s murder.’

Stiles’ heart skips a beat as he carefully sits down across his dad, cold cup of coffee clasped between his hands. If he can get his dad to connect the two cases together then that’s one step in the right direction of where he wants to go. ‘Do you think it’s related?’ He doesn’t want to say too much, give too much. He needs to his dad to figure it out on his own without his interference.

‘It’s not possible, nor is it _im_ possible,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘What relation do they even have with each other? None, unless you want to count their—’

His heart skips again except for entirely different reasons. He holds his breath and watches as the metaphorical gears click in his dad’s head until he’s stopped at what Stiles knows will be the absolute wrong conclusion.

‘Derek Hale.’

 _Shit_ , he swears to himself and tries not to panic. ‘Derek Hale,’ he repeats with a level tone as John rises from his seat and starts pacing behind his desk muttering names under his breath.

‘Isaac Lahey, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Scott McCall…’ he stops and slowly turns to direct a wide-eyed stare at Stiles full of dread. ‘You could be next.’

He jumps, almost sloshes the coffee onto his uniform as he tries to do some damage control. ‘Dad, no, this is—’

‘I taught you everything I know, Stiles,’ he breathes quietly as his expression slowly shifts, ‘and I know you see the pattern in the murders, too.’

‘Yeah,’ he tries to swallow against the growing lump in his throat and the building panic he feels beneath his ribcage. ‘Yeah, dad, I know but it’s not Derek. I swear.’

‘What are you hiding?’ He demands with a narrowed look, expression full of fury in replacement of fear.

‘I’m not hiding anything,’ he lies in a boldfaced manner and feels his heart wrench at his deceit. ‘I told you – friend or not, if any of them are in any way involved in these murders then I won’t hesitate to handcuff them and bring them in. We talked about this.’

John shakes his head as he takes the coffee from Stiles’ hand and drinks all of it in one go. His face goes through a myriad of emotions – fear, weariness and anger – before it settles into resolve as he puts the cup down on the edge of the desk. ‘I want you off of these cases and I want you to go home.’

He scoffs and barely holds back the urge to roll his eyes, ‘what, you think I’ll be any safer at home than here at the station?’Stiles can feel a steady tremor working its way out from beneath his ribcage, spreading across his body and down to the tips of his fingers. He’s a mixture of nerves, indignation, anxiety and panic and he knows if he feels this way then his dad, with his high-blood pressure, must be feeling worse.

‘I want you gone in the next ten minutes, Stilinski.’

The use of his last name has never felt like such a horrible slap to the face before and he can’t help the shock that must be on his face as he tries to plead with him, ‘Dad, you can’t be serious.’

‘As your senior and commanding officer—’

His heart skips again, his voice steadily rising as he speaks. ‘Don’t pull rank on me, dad!’

‘—you are hereby dismissed from police duty until I deem you fit to return.’

‘Dad!’

He knows he’s shaking, as though he’s on the verge of vibrating out of his own skin as he takes in the man standing in front of him. He’s never felt so angry and so helpless at the same time, and he’s never felt like such a stranger standing in the same room as his own father.

‘Leave your gun on the table and the keys to the patrol car,’ the sheriff tells him with a blank expression.

Stiles clicks his mouth shut as he takes off the holster, a bit more roughly than necessary, before leaving it on the table. He can barely meets his dad’s eyes as he digs through his pockets until he finds the keys and all but throws them onto the table next to his firearm.

‘I’ll get someone to drive you home.’

‘Don’t bother; I’ll walk,’ he mutters as he grabs and twists the doorknob, wrenching it open.

‘Stiles—’

He slams the door shut, uncaring that he’s letting his emotions get the better of him and drawing unnecessary attention to himself as he leaves the station, not once stopping by his desk since he knows there’s nothing he’d be allowed to bring back with him. Stiles leaves the jacket behind, too, a mistake he only notices once he’s outside where the sky’s just opening up to let loose a light drizzle.

It’s bound to get worse, if he recalls the weather reports correctly, but it matches his sour mood as he power-walks down the footpath in the direction of the house. As the rain progresses from a light drizzle to a downpour he quickens his pace until he’s all but running. The station is only ten minutes away by car but he manages the run back home in a little over twenty minutes, already soaking wet from head to toe.

He realizes he’s still shaking once he gets inside and out of the rain but he knows it’s a combination of both the cold that’s sinking down into his body and rattling his bones as well as the fury that’s still churning away in the pit of his stomach. Stiles retreats into the bathroom, lungs still heaving as he’s shucking off his clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor before reaching into the bathtub to turn on the taps.

His phone is a bit damp and he’s never more thankful that he bought the water-resistant version of his phone up until now. It costs an unfair amount but he can see it’s worthiness now after being forced to run through the torrential rain and the howling wind occurring just outside the house.

 _I need a lift to your place. See you in half an hour?_ He sends to Isaac, knowing Derek will probably end up being brought in for questioning down at the station and possibly held accountable for the many deaths related to his circle of friends.

Stiles leaves the phone on the sink before stepping under the warm spray, trying to figure out how everything went from good to shit in a matter of just seconds, not even minutes.

He wanted his dad to come to a conclusion on his own, to pull all the cases together and work on them as one single investigation, but he hadn’t expected it to be the wrong one and to leave him suspended from police work.

Once he feels relatively warm again he shuts off the water and towels himself dry, wrapping it around his waist and picking up his clothes on the way out. He dumps it in the hamper next to his door and pauses, flexing his toes against the semi-wet carpet and the uneven patches of discolor leading into his room. Stiles grabs the closest thing he can reach, the table lamp, and throws it into the corner of his room behind him, watches as a hand snatches it out of the air before it makes impact.

‘The _hell_ , Scott?’ He swears as he stalks forward to take back the lamp, ignoring the slight indentation of claw marks along the metal shade. ‘You don’t just show up in my room and say nothing!’

He stands abruptly, his eyes flashing gold once as he scowls. ‘Why the hell is my mum arrested for murder, Stiles?!’

‘I don’t know!’ He yells without meaning to as he tosses the lamp onto his bed, watches at it bounces and rolls off to land on the floor with a loud thunk. ‘She’s been framed. I think someone’s trying to frame Derek, too, I’m not sure,’ he exhales shakily as he sits down with his elbows on his knees and a hand covering his mouth.

‘You need to find out,’ Scott pleads as he sits beside Stiles. ‘How long have you been off work for? Maybe someone’s already found something back at the station?’

He lets out a humorless laugh and feels his body shaking again at the memory of what happened between him and his dad down at the office. ‘I am hereby relieved of my duty. I won’t be a part of any ongoing investigations with the Beacon Hills Police Department for the foreseeable future.’

Scott swears as he runs a hand through his hair, making his curls wilder as he grips onto it hard. ‘What are we going to do? You were our inside-man.’

Stiles shakes his head as he stands, moving over to his drawers to pick up a fresh set of clothes. ‘It’s fine,’ he tries to console as he changes. ‘It means I can concentrate on this side of things. I was going nowhere as a police officer anyhow,’ he tells him as he drags the dresser away from the wall, ignoring the dust bunnies as it flutters into the air before settling back down again.

‘What are you doing?’ Scott asks as Stiles grabs a decorative letter opener from his desk before kneeling back down by the wall again.

‘I had to leave my gun behind but at least I’ve still got my knives,’ he says as he uses the blunt tip of the knife to loosen a part of the wall panel, revealing a small cache of weapons and a case of bullets hidden behind the painted over wood.

Scott jumps from his seat and grabs onto his forearm before he can slip on his leather guard. ‘Wait, no, Stiles, you shouldn’t—’

‘You’ll do _anything_ to save your mum and Allison and the rest of us. The same goes for me.’

His expression twists to one of hurt and worry as he begs Stiles, ‘I don’t want you to go back to that life.’

He wants to tell Scott to stop being naïve, that he never fully escaped from it, that he’ll always be a hunter first before he is a police officer. Instead he tells him, ‘Don’t worry, Scott; you won’t lose me a second time.’

Scott relaxes at his words and nods as he draws in a steadying breath. Stiles continues to arm himself with two more knives before he feels good enough about leaving the house. He makes sure to send a text to Isaac telling him that Scott’s giving him a ride instead as he settles on the passenger seat of the slightly beat-up Mazda parked on the empty driveway.

‘Is it safe for you to tell us what’s going on?’ Scott asks as he reverses out onto the empty street and starts driving towards the loft, flicking on the windshield wipers and accidentally cranking the clutch as he changes gear.

Stiles weighs the possibility of it in his mind. On the one hand, as a police officer, he’s obligated to keep things confidential while cases and investigations are still ongoing, but on the other hand there’s not much the media probably hasn’t already covered on their own. He’ll omit unnecessary details but the rest is fair play.

‘I’ll fill you guys in on what I know when we get there. Save me from having to repeat things more than once.'

‘Okay,’ he finishes with a nod as he continues driving.

Stiles can’t help the slight fidget in his fingers as he runs a hand over the concealed leather guard on his forearm. He feels naked without a gun strapped to his holster by his hip and he knows he should’ve kept a small firearm in with the knives, too, but he never thought he’d be in the situation where he’s suspended from duty by his own dad.

Hindsight is 20/20 as they say. He’ll have to make a trip to the safe for a small withdrawal later but for now he has other important matters to deal with first.

They’re about three blocks away from the loft when Scott’s phone starts ringing the personalized tone for Allison. He answers the call on speakerphone and leaves it in the empty slot where the car stereo used to be before it was stolen.

‘Scott!’ She shouts unnecessarily into the phone, her distraught voice filling out the entire car. Scott almost swerves trying to pull over on the side of the road before he sends them crashing into a street lamp. ‘Scott! My dad’s been arrested!’

Stiles swears, his voice alerting Allison of his presence, her tone shifting from distress to outright fury.

‘Stiles! What the _hell_ is going on?’

‘Hang on, what is your dad even arrested for?’ Scott asks as he picks up the phone again and holds it out between the two of them.

‘Expired licenses for the owning and selling of firearms. It doesn’t make sense; dad always renews them at least a month in advance but the police told him that no record of this ever went through, electronically or on paper. There has to be a mistake!’

Stiles pulls out his phone and starts looking through his contacts list for his dad but stops short of putting the call through. It won’t look good if he starts asking questions about cases he’s no longer a part of but things are spiraling out of control and he needs to focus before he spirals along with it.

He swears again and almost jumps out of his seat when his phone starts ringing with the police station number flashing across the screen.

‘This is Stilinski speaking,’ he answers and holds up a hand for Scott to quiet down while he tries to get his heart rate back under control.

‘Stiles, I’m just calling to tell you I won’t be coming home tonight,’ his dad tells him and he can’t help the skip in his heart as he listens to the careful tone coming from his dad.

‘Why,’ he demands, ‘because you’ve got people to interrogate?’

‘It’s not me that’ll be doing the interrogation.’

His dad sounds on edge and Stiles has to draw in a fortifying breath before speaking again, ‘What’s going on, dad?’

John remains quiet on the other line and Stiles has to check repeatedly that the call hasn’t suddenly been dropped. He waits as patiently as he can even though his mind is reeling from one scenario after another.

‘I just lost my badge,’ his dad tells him. Stiles ignores the shocked look on Scott’s face as his own stomach bottoms out, ‘and I’ve been arrested for tempering of evidence.’

It’s only been an hour, barely even that, and Stiles suddenly comes to the conclusion that the pack, as a whole, is no more.  

\-----

The cells aren’t cramped but it’s never been this crowded before with 4 people sharing the same space, although Boyd and Melissa are taking up the lease amount of room sitting side by side with the bible held between the two of them, occasionally murmuring out familiar verses as they read together. Chris is sitting down with his hands almost together in prayer, his thumbs tucked under his chin as he holds his index fingers firmly to his lips, though his eyes look are focused on the far wall, gaze sharp and burning.

He tries to calm his heart rate even though his mind is still reeling from his last conversation with Stiles. Added on top of that the unexpected murder of Maria Reyes and the even more unexpected arrest of Melissa McCall makes him feel entirely too small and entirely too overwhelmed. He’s not claustrophobic but he feels trapped and confined.

John doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, is thankful he managed to get Stiles out of the station before shit hit the fan. He hadn’t know any other way of protecting Stiles except to completely cut him off and hope against hope that everything will come together before he gets hurt. Obviously, as he paces back and forth near the bars holding them in, that hope is misplaced.

It feels worse when he thinks back on the folder he received just before his arrest – a report detailing a positive match of the bullet found in an earlier crime scene to a gun that was recovered on the floor outside the boys’ locker room in Beacon Hills High School they currently have stored away in the evidence locker.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET'S HOPE I DON'T TAKE ALMOST ANOTHER MONTH TO POST UP THE NEXT CHAPTER! TOODLES!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHA, I WAS READING THE END NOTES FROM THE LAST CHAPTER AND I’M LAUGHING AT MYSELF (and silently berating myself) FOR THE FACT THAT IT’S BEEN MORE THAN HALF A YEAR.
> 
> I have no excuses, because they are just that: excuses. Please sit back, relax and have this chapter to read through.

 

The station is a mess of activity, all hands on deck, with the two deputies doing their best to corral every available police officer together to form set teams. It’s admirable but they’re wasting resources trying to tackle all of the current cases going on in Beacon Hills when they should be focusing on just the one or two; not the entire handful. On any other given day it might be doable, depending on man-power and the level of difficulty behind the cases, but as it is there are simply too many ongoing investigations happening in the same instance and hardly enough people to shuffle around to tend to all of them at once.

The bars on his side of the cell open and he turns his eyes away from the wall to see both deputies speaking to the sheriff in low tones, punctuated occasionally with terse shakes of the head and aborted hand gestures, before giving back his badge as well as his gun.

Chris makes the decision: it’s now or never. Even if it’s not his place to tell everything, even if he’s breaking Stiles’ trust in him, the sheriff still deserves to be told what’s going on so he can prepare for it. From one father to another he deserves to know.

\-----

**Chapter 9**

\-----

Isaac is waiting under the shelter leading up to the loft when they arrive. The plan is for the both of them to drive the two and a half hours it takes to get to Allison’s college and pick her up. The next part is to stay together and then get Erica from the airport when she lands before regrouping again. At the rate things are going they don’t want to be tempting fate by going anywhere without putting down a buddy system first.

Stiles watches them drive off, waits until they’re out of his line of sight before going inside and taking the stairs two at a time, scrunching his nose at the combined smell of rotting wood, corroding metal, old gasoline and fresh ozone from the heavy rain. The door is unlocked when he tests it and he puts his keys back into his pocket before shutting the door behind him.

Derek, when he finds him, is leaning over a table with a large roll of paper with multiple names, their connections to the pack and the method of how they died written down in black marker pen. There’s Tredan Lahey, death by gunshot wound, related to the pack through Isaac Lahey as father and son. There’s a line connecting Aniyah Rosa Quinn to Vernon Boyd, as grandmother and grandson, and a note beside his name labeled: framed and detained (accused for administering overdose). He can see Maria and Nathaniel Reyes, the lines that lead to Erica Reyes as parent and daughter, a note under Maria that shifted from critical condition to deceased.

‘You’ve been busy,’ Stiles comments as he takes the marker pen from Derek’s fingers and starts writing new information to the paper. He adds Scott’s name first, followed by Melissa McCall. He draws a line between the two of them and pens down their relationship as mother and son, then he adds another line connecting Melissa to Maria and copies what Derek wrote down for Boyd: framed and detained (accused of smothering patient).

He adds four more names to the list and by the time he’s done scribbling down everything he can think of, drawing lines every which way, the entire page almost resembles that of a crude spider web. He caps the marker pen and turns to Derek, notices the frown and disbelief clear on his face.

‘You were suspended?’ He asks unnecessarily. It’s labeled right next to his name.

‘Don’t think of it as a negative,’ he tells him as he taps the marker pen on the paper. ‘I didn’t have the flexibility I needed to try and put those cases together without getting suspicious looks. This way I’ve got more freedom to move around.’

Derek nods, though his frown doesn’t let up. Stiles pushes the topic of his suspension aside and forges on, refocusing their attention back to the chart in front of them. ‘Whoever is targeting us is targeting us as a whole, as a pack; not just as individuals. This means they’re in the know with either the supernatural community or the hunter community. They’ve got the resources to cripple us one by one and they’re deliberate enough to do this without leaving behind a trace. You didn’t manage to find anything in the preserve by the county line, did you?’

He shakes his head, ‘All I could smell was burnt plastic and metal for miles.’

Stiles figured as much. It’s not to say that he doesn’t have any faith in Derek’s abilities as a werewolf but he doesn’t doubt that their as-of-yet-unseen enemy won’t have already taken their strengths and weaknesses into deep consideration. Three people have died, one still in critical condition under 24-hour watch, and they barely have enough to form a liable suspect.

‘This isn’t like the other attacks that we’ve encountered and dealt with as a pack. It’s usually more…’ he trails off, hand moving in a rolling gesture as he tries to find the right words to describe it.

‘Organized chaos?’ Derek supplies.

‘Yes!’ He says with a click of his fingers. ‘It was easy to figure out what they wanted, more or less. After that it’s just a matter of formulating a plan to counteract it. This time, though…this time feels a lot more personal.’

Derek nods in agreement. ‘It’s slow, methodical; applying enough pressure to wind us up but not enough to push us over the edge. They’re not just going after us in a direct manner; they’re going after the Betas through their family.’

‘Taking away the Betas’ strength and in turn taking away yours.’ They’ve never encountered an enemy with such a thought-out plan before. It’s always been about power but, unlike all their other fought battles, Stiles doubts that’s what this is about. It screams of revenge, manipulation and hidden agendas, of destroying for the sake of destroying. ‘You’re the main target. But why?’ He asks as he turns his back on the table and leans his body onto it, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at his ankles.

‘Better yet: who?’ Derek adds as he smoothes his palm across the page repeatedly, corner to corner, as though an answer would reveal itself if he does it enough times. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

Stiles shuts his eyes and tries to think back on all the cases, knows an answer, however big or small, is just right under his nose if he can just _focus_ properly and for long enough for a thought to sink in.

Tredan Lahey died of a bullet wound to the head, a kill-shot made at a distance of at least 300 yards in low-level lighting: indication of a trained marksman.

Aniyah Rosa Quinn OD’d from her medication, meaning someone took the time to gather enough intelligence on her and Boyd to get the basic knowledge of how often she took her medicine and how often that prescription was filled. It’s likely that research was done on each of the drugs to figure out which was the most effective over a short period of time, enough to implicate Boyd, being the sole benefactor of her will, as the most likely murder suspect.

Maria and Nathaniel Reyes were victims of a car crash while on their way to the airport, an incident that almost took their lives, occurring at a time where traffic is between peak and off-peak hours in an intersection that has no surveillance cameras.

Everything took meticulous planning. The only wrench occurred when neither of Erica’s parents died in the resulting crash, forcing the assailant (he refuses to believe Melissa was involved, regardless of the video evidence saying otherwise) to resort to one of the sloppiest method of murder possible: smothering Maria with a pillow. It points to a deep-seated grudge, single-minded obsession, of leaving behind no loose ends, and—

‘No loose ends,’ he breath catches as he stares unseeingly at his shoes, his heart kicking into overtime as his mind staggers and stumbles at the sudden thought of who their enemy might be.

Derek isn’t the main target, never was.

‘Stiles, what are y—’

He ignores the abrupt break in Derek’s speech as he whirls his attention back to the older man, eyes wild as he quells his shaking hands by gripping onto his hair. ‘You’re not the target – I am!’

 _How long ago did she get out, how long has it been?_ He keeps asking himself but suddenly notices the pained expression on Derek’s face, his wide eyes full of terror as he stares off into the middle distance.

‘Derek! Are you listening to me?’

His voice, when he speaks, sounds small and frightened. ‘I smell fire.’

Stiles sucks in a breath without thinking and he can smell it, too – gasoline and burning wood – but he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. It’s still raining outside, just a light barely-there drizzle compared to when he arrived, but the wind has picked up since then and he can see the tell-tale signs of orange fire reflecting off the corrugated metal from the opposite building. He panics, remembers an old case file regarding the Hale house and the death of eight family members. They died in a blaze that ate away at the foundation of their home greedily and he knows without a doubt that Derek’s mind is elsewhere, paralyzed from the memory of losing his family in an eerily similar setting.

‘We have to go,’ Stiles tells him as he places a steady hand on Derek’s arm. ‘We have to go, _now_ ,’ he tries to say as urgently as possible without scaring him further.

Derek starts walking, stiltedly, as if he can’t remember how to use his legs, and Stiles doesn’t fault him for that. Words and emotions are powerful things. So are memories.

Stiles guides him with a firm grip on his forearm, tries to go slow so he doesn’t spook the older man into an accidental shift, but then he hears a crack and a faraway groan of a part of the building collapsing. He feels the structure give way, just the smallest of slants, and that’s when he decides that they can’t simply walk the rest of the way.

‘Derek, snap out of it!’ He yells when they almost trip going down the first flight of stairs. His voice manages to pull Derek out of his stupor and he shakes it off, looking equal parts apprehensive and apologetic as he leads the way out. There’s a thick plume of smoke hovering over them with more billowing out from the bottom of the stairs and Stiles instinctively pulls the hem of his shirt over his nose and mouth to stop himself from inhaling too much smoke.

It’s like a furnace the second they reach the ground floor and he feels himself sweating profusely as he tries to breathe around the smell of ash. Stiles can see licks of flames just beyond the exit, tamed by the rain water, and he braces himself to make a long jump to clear it. Derek goes first, running out with his arms above his head. He follows suit, tries to ignore the searing heat he can feel on his hands and face as he jumps out of the fire and into a sudden breeze of cold air.

He shivers and pauses to catch his breath, turns his eyes back to the building they just came out from and watches as the fire slowly climbs its way up the walls despite it being drenched in water. It’s stopped raining and the flame is taking advantage of it, growing stronger as the water evaporates into steam, feeding itself on the gust whirling around them. The stench of petrol is cloying at his sinuses and he holds up a hand over his shirt to lessen the smell as he tries to find the source of the rising blaze but with the amount of gasoline he smelled earlier, strengthening as they neared the exit, the property line must’ve been doused with it to swell so rapidly in such little time.

‘How did you not smell it?’ He asks incredulously as he backs away from the exit and tries to clear the building in case it decides to topple on top of them. ‘It stinks even for my nose.’

‘I always smell it,’ Derek tells him, voice rough as he clears his throat, no doubt trying to expel as much foreign matter from his lungs cause by smoke inhalation.

Stiles drops it when he notices Derek’s white-knuckled grip and the crimson line of blood slipping out from the cracks of his clenched fingers. His shoulders are tense as he stares unblinkingly into the fire, expression blank although the grit in his teeth gives away his distress.

There’s another deep groan from further in the building followed by the sound of something splintering and he can see the whole front of the structure tremble as a part of it collapses under the strain. Stiles is thinking, _what the hell_ , when he hears the unmistakable sound of a taser being charged and fired. Mud splatters across the leg of his jeans and he looks down to see Derek convulsing violently on the ground beside him. Stiles automatically goes for his sidearm but his fingers meet nothing but thin air and he swears at himself for forgetting that he doesn’t have a gun on him at all.

He feels the sharp corner of something knocking on his skull, hears a sardonic laugh punctuated by a loud bang of a gun being fired, the sound of it shocking him into an aborted jump though he knows he’s not the one suffering a bullet wound. It feels too much like déjà vu as he looks up with unfocused eyes from where he’s fallen down next to Derek at the familiar face of Kate Argent with her newly dyed hair cut short.

Stiles tries to get up, feels the mud squelch from between his fingers, but all he can feel is vertigo and all he can see is the snakeskin pattern on her cowboy boots before everything fades to black.

\--

He comes to some hours later. He knows because the light, what little of it coming from the moon and the stars shining through the bars of the basement, is enough indication of the sun having long set. He groans and winces at the throbbing pain in his head, possibly from where the butt of the gun hit him, but when he reaches to give it a tentative touch his fingers come away without blood, something to be thankful for.

A shiver works its way down his spine as he rolls until he’s on his knees, feels and hears a clink of metal close to him and looks down to see a shackle surrounding his ankle. He doesn’t have to take a good look around to know, without a doubt, that they’re back in the basement of the Hale house again.

There’s a fine tremor in his hands and fingers, not just from the cold but also from being back in this location of dead earth and lifeless atmosphere. The lack of magic in this place never fails to make him want to crawl out of his skin.

He pats himself down with grubby hands from where he’s kneeling on the ground, finds that all three of his knives are gone, even the one he stowed away in his boot, and he can’t help but swear quietly under his breath as he waits for his eyes to readjust to the lack of light. A quick sweep of the floor reveals that he’s not alone – Derek is unconscious with his arms chained up to the low ceiling, his torso and legs held down by manacles connected to a metal grate behind him. What he thought was just mud staining Derek’s shirt turns out to be black-colored blood oozing from the bullet wound on his bicep.

Stiles staggers to his feet and has barely taken two steps towards Derek he hears the safety of a gun being clicked off and, even though his mind is racing, his body jerks to an abrupt stop.

She’s got a finger on the trigger and while she might not be interested in killing him yet, he doesn’t doubt she won’t mind hurting him in the slightest whether he gives her a reason to or not.

‘I bet Allison told you where she bought these,’ Kate smirks as she taps the barrel of the gun to the leather armguard and he notices that it’s his own. ‘As her favorite aunt it’s my duty to share with her all my secrets. Well,’ she amends, ‘not _every_ secret – have to keep an air of mystery, after all.’

He clenches his hands together and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t bother asking her what she wants because he already knows. The Argent family is obviously a little crazed in the head and he finds it miraculous that Chris and Allison managed to escape from that brand of insanity.

Kate’s smirk loses its’ edge by his lack of response but she’s not too visibly deterred by it as she approaches the unconscious werewolf. ‘The world is such a tiny place, isn’t that amazing? Who would’ve thought the both of you would end up working together.’ He watches as she withdraws the knife from its sheath and he makes an aborted move to stop her before the action registers in his mind. She catches it and her smirk widens as she makes a cut down the henley, ripping through the fabric and slicing into skin. Derek jolts and shakes but he doesn’t wake as the wound slowly knits itself back together, leaving nothing behind but ruined clothes and a bloody line going from sternum to navel. ‘You and Derek actually have quite a lot in common, did you know that?’

He grits his teeth against the urge to throw expletives at her as he quips back, ‘We both have the unfortunate luck of meeting you. Karma’s a real bitch, it seems.’

She laughs at him. ‘You’re so snarky, Dylan—’

‘My name is Stiles,’ he snaps.

‘That’s a lesson you obviously never learned,’ she ignores him as she smiles, although her expression abruptly twists into one of pure malice, ‘manners and treating your elders with respect.’

‘Respect is earned, which is something you’ll never get from me even if you begged.’

Kate throws her head back in a full-bellied laugh, the sound of it echoing around the basement and making him wish he still had a knife on him so he can reach out and cut across her jugular. She quiets down to a throaty chuckle full of amusement and finishes off with a pleased sigh, as though he just told her a funny joke. ‘Honey, I’m not the one that’s going to be begging tonight.’

She sheaths the knife back into place, uncaring for the blood staining the leather as she walks towards him. He stays where he is, refuses to back down and cower in front of her even as she stops just an arms’ length away with the gun pointing straight into his gut. ‘You know, there’s another lesson that Gerard never quite managed to sink into your head.’

‘I bet you’re going to tell me.’

Her smirk returns, edges tinged with manic as she changes direction and aims the gun for his heart instead. ‘Never leave behind loose ends. And you know what you are? A loose end.’

He meets her gaze head-on, doesn’t even flinch even as she shifts direction and points the barrel of her gun to his head. He jolts when he hears a pained howl in the far off distance intermixed with the sound of someone screaming in agonizing pain. She jerks and turns her eyes to the bars, eyes fierce and lips pulled back in a snarl, the angle of the barrel dropping enough that he’s not in immediate danger of receiving a fatal gunshot wound. Stiles makes a run towards her, to close the distance and rip that gun away from her fingers but the shackle pulls at his leg just as she takes a single step back, laughing at him as he lurches forward until he’s in an awkward position on his hands and knees.

‘Stay down, like the dog you are,’ Kate taunts as she hurries out of the basement to deal with whatever threat has suddenly appeared in the property.

Stiles shakes off the sting going up his leg as he limps towards Derek, still unconscious, breathing laboriously and looking pale under the light of the waning moon. He shakes him by his shoulders, slaps him lightly against his cheeks but the only response he gets is a small groan of pain and an involuntary shudder.

‘Derek, wake up,’ he pleads, casting a furtive look over his shoulder to make sure Kate’s not standing behind him where his back is completely exposed. ‘I need you to break these chains for me. It’s not laced with mountain ash so I know you can more than handle it, _come on_!’ He punches Derek across the cheek and it wakes him up but he’s bleary-eyed and confused, looking like he’s drugged out of his mind. Stiles swears at the ache in his knuckles, wonders which strain of wolfsbane is flowing through Derek’s blood to get him this way, and immediately jabs a finger down the bullet wound, making the older man howl as his body seizes under the pain.

‘Wake the fuck up,’ he demands, no longer able to keep up with his appalling bedside manner, and starts pulling at the chains instead, anything to get Derek to start moving. ‘We don’t have time—’

He pitches forward the same time his ears protest at the sudden explosion of sound around him as he smacks into Derek’s body while pain erupts from his chest. He hears a snarl above him as he staggers on his feet, leaving a bright fresh smear of blood on Derek’s chest above a new bullet hole as he falls onto his side, feeling breathless as his hands come away from his body shaky and liberally coated in red.

‘Daddy told me that if a dog doesn’t want to listen to their master then they should be put down,’ Kate sneers as she starts stalking towards him. ‘I’ve always hated how he picked you over me; his _own daughter_.’

Stiles starts crawling backward, pushing his palms against the rough ground, trying to get as far away from her as possible but the shackle pulls uncomfortably on his ankle, reminding him that he’s chained to the wall. His mind is reeling from a combination of shock, a sudden ringing in his ear, and searing pain spreading through his body.

‘Please—’ he coughs out blood as he drags his body up against the wall, listens as Derek shouts and shakes against the grate keeping him still. His hands are trembling without pause and he has to reach out to grab onto the metal framework to ground himself while his other hand clenches weakly at his bloodstained jacket.

She smiles as she crouches in front of him. ‘See? What did I tell you, Dylan? You’ll be the one begging by the end of the night,’ she chuckles again, paying Derek no mind as she leans forward slightly, lips curled up in a satisfied smirk. ‘Say it one more time.’

He chokes; has a sick, sinking feeling that he’s got a punctured lung but he returns her smirk with a bloody one of his own as he slurs out, ‘Please, go to hell.’

Kate’s smirk twists into a sneer as she straightens and takes aim at him one more time. ‘Daddy should’ve killed you when he had the chance but that’s okay. I can do it; he can owe me a favor.’

Stiles can’t focus his eyes, can barely see straight but the metal framework is no longer shaking under his hold. He grows dizzy at the second explosion in his ears the same instance he feels blood splatter across his face and sees Kate’s body land heavily on the ground by his feet.

‘Should’ve stayed away from my son when you had the chance.’

The voice is muted and he can hardly hear it over the watery heaving of his lungs. He can taste blood at the back of his throat and more on his tongue as it spills out from his mouth. He feels deaf but he can hear his heart in his ears, the sound of it drowning out everything else.

He hears what sound suspiciously like his name but he doesn’t know for sure. He feels like a child as he cries out for his dad but all he can see is shadow and all he can feel is pain as it slips him under.

\--

Stiles doesn’t know what wakes him first – whether it’s the lights above him, or the repetitive beeping just beside him, the dull pain he can feel throbbing beneath his ribs or the nightmare about being trapped in a car – but he’s content to remain floating.

He feels sleep beckoning for him and he freely lets it pull him back under but something snags, holds onto him and preventing him from going in too deep.

It’s warm, heavy like an anchor, alive as it pulses within his grip. It feels like a hand and he doesn’t realize he’s squeezing it lightly until the movement is softly reciprocated.

He goes, but knows he has safe shores to return to when he next wakes.

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear that I will not take half a year to post up the next chapter. (And also be up to no good in the meantime.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m starting to realize that I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Let’s just hope I don’t make a mess of things, eh?

Hospitals take up a good majority of his life, possibly ranking third on his list of locations that he spends the most time in; the first being his home with the station being a very close second.

He can never shake off the initial fear and apprehension whenever he walks through the automated sliding doors, can hardly breathe around the catch in his heart and throat, can barely contain the queasiness roiling in his stomach at the smell of antiseptic, blood and the occasional upchucking of someone’s meal.

The reasons why he visits the hospital varies, but not by a huge margin. Sometimes it’s for the coroner, sometimes it’s for the victims, sometimes it’s for his officers and sometimes it’s for his family.

John remembers all too well what it feels like to watch as his wife slowly slipped away from his fingers, and as he sits beside his son with a firm grip around his unresponsive hand, he fears he’s going to watch him fade away, too.

He doesn’t know what else he can do but he can’t bear to lose the second most important piece of his life another time.

Not when he barely survived it the first time.

\-----

**Chapter 10**

\-----

He wakes up choking, unable to breathe through his mouth. He feels dizzy and sick to his stomach, can’t help the twitch in his fingers as he brings up a shaky hand to his throat to scratch weakly at the clog he feels there.

Someone takes his hands away and restrains them against beside his body. The sensation of being surrounded and held down feels overwhelming, suffocating, and he tries to fight against it but he can’t see and all he can hear are loud voices telling him to calm down; they’ll get it out soon. The second they say it the uncomfortable sensation is gone from his throat and he can’t help the hard gasp and hacking cough as he tries to breathe on his own power.

Everything feels terrible – his head hurts, his chest aches, his throat’s sore – and he feels so, so thirsty but when someone puts the end of a straw to his lips he takes an involuntary sip and feels his stomach rebel unpleasantly.

‘It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay,’ his dad tells him with a soothing lilt in his voice as somebody rubs a hand from shoulder to shoulder while someone else carefully fusses with the bandages wrapped around his head. It pulls away to let in the fluorescent light above him and he can’t help wincing and squeezing his eyes shut even tighter than what it was before because it’s too bright and it feels like it’s going to burn him from the inside out.

It’s such a ridiculous thought but he’s tired and he can’t think beyond how much everything just hurts, including his upset tummy. His back twinges with every shift of his body but its minor compared to the flaring pain he feels across his chest.

The scratch in his throat fades somewhat as he continues to breathe as calmly as he possibly can, head turned away from the brightness, and eventually his eyes learn to readjust to the lighting again. The intensity of the white fluorescent tubes irritates the hell out of him but he focuses his eyes away from them to the blurry shapes surrounding his bed and blinks repeatedly until he can just barely make out the sight of an unfamiliar man wearing a medical coat, Melissa and his dad.

He’s in a hospital.

The man in the medical coat starched white shines a penlight in his eyes and hums approvingly at what he sees. He’s less satisfied when he places the stethoscope over the bandages of his chest and listens to his stilted breathing. It’s obvious he’s not pleased but, at the same time, seems to have been expecting it.

‘Can you tell me your full name, please?’ The doctor asks him while flipping through the clipboard, eyes sharp and assessing.

‘I’m not telling you my first name,’ he rasps out, voice weak and rough as sandpaper.

Melissa actually laughs, a little too high and a little too hysterically, though she smothers the rest of it with a hand covering her mouth. His dad looks partially relieved, though he still looks to be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Stiles reaches out to grab his hand but his fingers are still shaking profusely and he can only barely manage a weak squeeze of reassurance. John returns it, holding on tight enough to stop the tremors going through his fingers.

The doctor goes through a list of questions, some of which Stiles answers correctly while a couple of others that he doesn’t. He gets the date wrong and he can’t recall what happened to get him to lie here in this hospital bed.

John looks at him with a deep furrow between his eyebrows and a tight expression but Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it, not when there are more than a few blanks as to what happened before he ended up here. All he can remember was that he was with Derek at the loft trying to put together clues and ideas as to what was going on with the pack.

Erica should’ve arrived in Beacon Hills by now.

‘Could you repeat that?’ Stiles asks and looks away from his dad because he can’t multitask thinking about the others while listening to someone talk and trying to figure out the emotions going through his dad’s face at the same time.

The doctor nods as if he’d expected this reaction and turns back a couple of pages to read through the patient notes again. ‘It’s going to take approximately 3 months for you to recover, not just because of the punctured lung but also because of the infection from the bullet wound,’ the older man recaps, not looking too put-upon at having to say things more than once. ‘The bullet didn’t make a clean exit and you had to undergo surgery to take out the remaining bullet fragments from your body. We’re going to keep you here for one more night of observation and if everything checks out then you’ll be free to recover at home.’

Stiles clears his throat, regrets the action immediately when it only serves to aggravate the scratchy feeling to an unbearable amount. He tries to swallow but finds that his mouth is about as dry as his voice. ‘Anything else?’

‘No strenuous physical activity of any sort. We’ll be prescribing you Vicodin for a few days to help with the pain but normal painkillers should be fine for when it’s finished. If the pain gets too much or becomes too unbearable then don’t hesitate to return to the hospital for another check-up.’

He frowns, wonders how much more pronounced the aches in his body will be once the haze of being drugged runs its course.

Probably close to being thrown under the bus. Literally.

‘Okay,’ he murmurs after a while and feels a headache coming along from trying to process everything the doctor’s saying. His head feels sluggish, as if he’s trudging through mud trying to find coherent connections within the older man’s words. He gets it, he does, but it’s taking him almost three times as long trying to understand than if his mind were at full capacity.

The doctor nods again as he flips the clipboard folder shut with a quiet snap before tucking it back into an empty receptacle on the wall by the door. ‘I’ll leave Melissa to explain whatever other questions you might have. Please excuse me.’

As soon as the door closes behind the older man Melissa starts to fuss over Stiles again, offering the cup of water and telling him to take small, slow sips so he doesn’t throw it all back up like the first time. He manages to swallow down two before pushing the cup away, already feeling the tell-tale signs of his stomach fighting against him.

‘You haven’t even had half a cup,’ she worries as she stares down into the water level. ‘I can’t give you food unless you drink more. It’s been three days; you must be hungry.’

‘I’m more tired than hungry,’ he mumbles and belatedly realizes who’s currently in the same room as him. ‘How are the both of you here?’ Last he remembered they were in a cellblock for charges of murder and forgery.

‘Well—’

‘Melissa,’ his dad cuts in, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he looks at everywhere on Stiles’ face but his eyes, ‘I need to talk to him in private for a minute.’

‘Okay,’ she nods as she puts down the cup on his bedside table and runs a gentle hand through his hair. ‘I’ll make my rounds and then come back in a while.’

‘Thanks.’

Stiles tries to keep his eyes focused on his dad even as he sees Melissa leaving the room from his periphery but his gaze keeps slipping down, down, down until he catches sight of a shiny badge clipped onto his dad’s belt. His heart skips, the sounds of it made evident on the monitor next to him, as he draws his attention back up.

‘Dad, what happened?’

He’s missing more than a few blanks of the events that occurred after his visit to Derek’s loft and he’s got a sinking feeling that his dad is privy to what those blanks are exactly about.

‘You honestly don’t remember?’ He tests, his tone edging towards hard while his eyes take a sharp turn towards him, narrowed slightly and assessing.

His heartbeat skips again and rises at the questioning. His lungs starts to quiver, his breathing coming out shallow as he waves off his dad’s attempt to calm him down while wracking through his memory banks for what happened during and after he was in the loft with Derek.

He frowns and shakes his head, tries to get rid of the cobwebs that have built up in his mind while he slept for three days. He tries to remember how he got shot but all he can see whenever he closes his eyes is Derek looking back at him with dilated pupils and a pale complexion. His heart rate steps up for a different reason, feeling dizzy at the thought of Derek looking like death warmed over.

‘Stiles,’ his dad warns when the monitor beside the bed starts spiking irregularly. ‘Take a deep breath with me.’

Memories are a powerful thing, and the loss of them makes him feel helpless.

There are hands holding his own and he doesn’t realize he’s squeezed his eyes shut until he opens them again to see his dad looking at him with worry and fear all over the lines of his face. He draws in a breath, too shaky and too weak to help. His chest hurts, his head hurts, he feels so, so sick. There are more hands on his body, too many of them at once, forcing him back down on his bed while someone shouts loud in his ears.

Somebody’s scream is blocking out the wild beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed and he doesn’t realize it’s his own voice until he feels his throat hurting, gasping for air to let loose another shout.

Suddenly, it fades and he feels as if he’s floating again with his head high up in the clouds.

‘Stiles,’ his dad’s voice reaches him, ‘I’m so sorry.’

He cries out for his dad, wonders why his face feels wet.

The sky must be crying, too.

\--

He wakes up alone, the room is dark, the curtains are shut and the pain he’d felt in his body is blissfully absent. There’s a dull throb he feels in his chest and it takes him far too long to realize that it’s his heart telling him that he’s still alive. He feels warm and heavy around his sternum, feels the weight move as he breathes and pinpoints the shape of the warmth as a hand, large and soothing.

Stiles retracts his initial thought.

He stares into deep red eyes, and they stare right back into him.

\--

The next time he wakes up he can’t see a thing. He blinks repeatedly, wonders if the infection in his lungs has somehow spread to his eyes, and he feels his heartbeat hitch and go up in tempo.

‘Stiles, _Stiles_ , hey! Take a deep breath, you’re okay, man.’

He moves his head towards Scott’s voice and belatedly realizes that he’s not blind; he’s just blindfolded. He groans and breathes, tries to settle his heart rate now that he knows he hasn’t actually lost his sight as he brings a hand up to his face and slides the smooth cloth over his head.

‘What’s with the blindfold?’ He asks as he tosses it on the table next to him and eyes the glass of water in contemplation. He’s thirsty but he doesn’t want a repeat performance of that first time. He’s hungry, too, now that he actually realizes it but he’s not sure how cooperative his stomach will be today and he’s not too keen on testing it out.

‘You were complaining about the lights,’ Scott explains as he picks up the cup and holds it out for him, though he doesn’t let go when Stiles’ hands still have that fine tremor going through them.

He grunts in disbelief as he takes a small, tentative sip from the straw. ‘I don’t remember that.’ He takes another when he doesn’t immediately feel like throwing up, and then another when it finally catches up to him just how parched he really feels.

‘Well,’ Scott says with a shrug and a cheeky grin, ‘it was basically just you muttering “fuck” and “lights” a lot.’

Stiles scoffs, blowing bubbles into the drink, and lets Scott take away the empty glass when he starts making empty slurping noises. ‘Sounds about right,’ he grunts as he tries to sit up, one hand lightly touching the ache he feels in his chest. He can feel the bandages just under the hospital gown.

‘How are you?’ He asks as he takes a hesitant seat on the edge of his bed, one leg swinging idly back and forth. ‘Mum told me you had a panic attack and they had to sedate you,’ he finishes with a wince.

‘Oh,’ he mutters and finally notices the lack of needles stuck in his body and the absence of a heart monitor beside him. _So that’s what it was_ , he thinks, finally making sense of why it felt like he was floating away. ‘Hey,’ he starts suddenly, remembering about Melissa now that Scott’s mentioned her, ‘what’s going on? Last I knew your mum was arrested on charges of murder.’

He can’t help thinking about his dad, either. He’s mostly certain he didn’t hallucinate seeing the badge on his dad’s belt.

Scott looks at him with surprise evident on his expression and in his voice, as though he hadn’t expected Stiles to not realize. ‘She’s been cleared, just like Boyd, and Chris and your dad.’

Stiles frowns, knows this is one of the blanks he’s missing. ‘What? How?’

His surprise shifts to one of bewilderment as he furrows his eyebrows, staring at him with wide eyes and his mouth slightly ajar. ‘We got Kate for everything. Even if we hadn’t been able to pin her to the murders we would’ve still been able to send her off to death row for assaulting an officer and for almost killing you.’

‘Kate?’ He can’t help but croak as a small shiver of residual fear works its way up his spine. There’s a spot on his back that flares at the name and he has to bite down a groan of pain from making its way out of his mouth.

He feels another headache coming along, his mind reeling with too much information that isn’t helping with the empty spaces within his mind. He knows Kate played a vital role but he can’t remember how he came to that original conclusion.

Scott swears under his breath as he staggers forward in his seat until he slips off the bed, stepping closer to Stiles as if the proximity might help. ‘You really don’t remember?’

He shakes his head and regrets the sharp movement when he feels a sudden stabbing ache on his right temple. ‘I need a minute. Just give me a minute.’

Scott thankfully backs away a small distance as Stiles covers his eyes with his hands and tries to retrace his steps again. He takes a deep breath and goes as far back to the station to the moment he was suspended and then moves forward to reaching home, soaking wet from the rain, and finding Scott waiting for him in his bedroom.

He can recall with almost perfect clarity what happened in the car as they drove towards the loft, not just the conversation with Allison about Chris but also the conversation he had with his dad and how he lost his badge.

‘How were they cleared?’ He asks belatedly as he looks up from his hands, squinting his eyes slightly at the brightness of the room.

‘Danny, Mahealani, found traces of the security feed at the hospital being remotely tempered with. He restored the original video to get an image of a short-haired lady going in and out of the room at the time of Erica’s mum dying. He found the same in the station department’s computer server. It was hacked into and some details were changed, like with Chris’ gun licenses, and they were pinned on your dad but he managed to get those cleared up, too.’

‘Thank god for Danny,’ he sighs in relief as he makes himself lie back down, running his fingers through his slick, unwashed hair while his other hand touches at the fabric above the bandages of his chest carefully.

‘Mum says it’s normal to be missing things after that kind of trauma,’ he tries to console after Stiles remains silent for too long.

‘I know that,’ he doesn’t snap but it’s a near thing. He knows all about head injuries and all about the brain’s limitations, how it erases or withholds certain pieces of information to protect the person. He knows he’s got symptoms of PTSD; he’s not naïve enough to think he doesn’t after the things he’s gone through. ‘There are already too many blanks in my life. I don’t need this on top of that.’

Scott whines softly as he takes Stiles’ hand away from ripping his hair out. He appreciates it, especially now that he realizes how much his head is hurting him. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘They’re _blanks_ , Scott,’ he tries not to sound so frustrated but he knows the emotions he’s bleeding out will be making him entirely too obvious. He glares down at the pain he feels growing in his chest as if it’s to blame for all the memory loss he’s suffering. ‘I remember being at the loft. I remember being with Derek. I remember brainstorming with him and then…’ he trails off because that’s as far as he can recall. Every time he closes his eyes he can see flashes of images that don’t fit in linearly with everything else he has lined up in his head and he’s half-convinced it’s all made up.

He’s never seen Derek look so afraid and so lost. It contrasts too much with the Derek he’s come to know and expect, the strength in his shoulders and the hard determination of his gaze.

‘Where’s Derek?’ He asks hastily, doesn’t know why he suddenly feels desperate at wanting to see him with his own eyes and with the need to remove the image he has of Derek bleeding black blood and looking pale under the moonlight.

‘He has to take care of some things, funeral plans I think, with Erica, Boyd and Isaac. Oh, and the loft,’ he adds belatedly.

He feels anxiety and dread churning away in his stomach. What hunger he’d felt before is well and truly extinguished. ‘What about the loft?’ His voice cracks as he asks.

‘It--it burned down,’ he tells him, confusion evident between his eyebrows. ‘You were there.’

‘I—’

He remembers brainstorming together one minute and then being surrounded by flames the next.

Stiles chokes on air at the sudden transition and feels too short on breath, as if he’s back in that burning building with its splintered foundations and blackened smoke. There are hands covering his own again and he almost panics until he realizes that it’s just Scott, not an entire crew of doctors and nurses pinning him down and pumping him full of drugs again.

‘Breathe in, breathe out,’ Scott repeats in a soft mantra as he holds Stiles’ hand over his chest, uncaring that he’s bunching the fabric of his custom-print t-shirt between his fingers. ‘Breathe in, breathe out.’

He swears as he thinks back on the fire, thinks back on the look of absolute terror in Derek’s eyes as the flames burned hot and bright at they neared the base of the building. He thinks back on the Hale case from years and years ago, the arson investigation that took the lives of eight members of his family. He knows, suddenly and without a doubt, that Kate had been the cause of that fire.

‘Stiles, are you with me?’

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs shakily as he lets go of the shirt and grabs hold on the bed sheets instead, anything to still his trembling fingers. ‘Yeah, I was at the loft.’

‘Yeah?’ He repeats as he nears, reclaiming his seat on the edge of the bed once more.

He remembers being in the basement of the Hale house, and that the memory he has of Derek pale and bleeding isn’t false in the slightest. It matches with the pallor of his face when Stiles saw him again last night but he hadn’t been coherent or awake long enough to do more than just stare.  

His chest aches suddenly and he raises a shaky hand to skirt around the edges of the bandage wrapped around his body. The infection in his lungs must’ve been from the wolfsbane Kate had on the bullets she shot him with, probably the same gun she used to take down Isaac’s dad and, later on, Derek.

Memories of what happened in the basement start fading in and out after that, possibly from a combination of both shock and blood loss, and then—

_Should’ve stayed away from my son when you had the chance._

‘I think my dad knows,’ Stiles says without prompt, the words spilling out of his mouth before his mind can catch up to what he just said. He draws in a sharp intake of breath, winces at the small stab of pain at the rapid inhalation of his lungs and exhales to relieve the pressure. His heartbeat ratchets up at the thought of how his dad must’ve seen Derek partially shifted when they’d come under fire.

‘ _Breathe_ , Stiles,’ Scott says loudly as he grabs hold of his shoulders.

‘My dad _knows_ ,’ he repeats with another hitched breath.

‘Yeah, your dad knows,’ he looks apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. He found us at the loft trying to sniff you guys out. He’s the one that figured it was Kate and as soon as we realized that’s what that new scent was we followed it to the house. I’m sorry.’

He swears and chokes again, wonders what else his dad knows, wonders if that’s why his dad had been looking at him with accusation clear in his eyes as if he doesn’t know if the person lying on the hospital bed is still his son or a complete stranger.

Scott continues, ‘Your dad knows about Allison. And about Chris, too. Chris was the one that told him.’

‘What?’ Stiles looks at him in equal parts alarm and anger. He can’t help the grit in his teeth at the thought of Chris exposing his secret like it’s his to tell, but his fear of losing the life he has now wins over every shred of fury he feels in his shaking limbs.

‘Not everything,’ Scott tries to defend, ‘just, things he absolutely needed to know.’

‘What about the rest?’ He asks breathlessly, feeling desperation clawing away at his stomach in the hopes that maybe he can still save whatever tentative place he has in his dad’s life.

‘I’m hoping you can explain it to me yourself.’

Stiles freezes down to his bones and down to his core. He can’t find it within himself to face his dad, not when he’s already imagining the worst-case scenario.

Scott cringes, looking contrite for not noticing sooner. ‘H-hi, John,’ he stutters out a greeting.

‘Scott,’ he says with a nudge of his head towards the door, his radio transmitter making a quiet sound of static before he moves to switch it off. Scott takes the hint and gives Stiles another apologetic look as he leaves.

Stiles stays quiet and painfully still as his dad hesitates by the threshold for a few moments before coming into the room. He avoids eye contact and watches as his dad hesitate by his bed again, standing stock-still with his knuckles white around the handle of a bag. He hates what they’re becoming – like strangers all over again.

‘The doctors gave you the go-ahead,’ John tells him as he pulls up and lays down a duffle bag on the bed by his feet. ‘Get changed and I’ll drive you home.’

He can only nod numbly as he gingerly pulls himself up from the bed, turning away from his dad. He tests his footing first before pushing himself off, taking the bag with him to hide away in the private toilet.

Stiles tries to breathe around the lump that’s formed in his throat as he sits on top of the toilet lid and tries to calm down, tries not to imagine the absolute worst, tries to hope that his dad isn’t going to make him leave, or worse, send him off to prison. He twists his fingers together as his leg shakes violently, wills his heart to slow and for his chest to stop hurting so deeply. He can’t tell if it’s from the bullet wound or from fear and heartache combined.

He doesn’t know how long he sits in the toilet for but he manages to compose himself well enough to get up and change.

The mirror reflects back a boy whose moles are a stark black against his pale skin. The bandages are clean, back and front, but the pain he can feel under them is far more intense along his chest than the single spot hurting on his back.

He remembers now; remembers that he was shot in the back as he begged Derek to wake, remembers blood spilling from his mouth and choking him as he tried to breathe. He traces a finger along the bandages to where he can feel a large incision; a necessary wound the doctors gave him to get the bullet fragments out from his body and he can just barely feel the ridges of where the stitches lay beneath.

His hands shake and he feels cold, but he doesn’t rush as he takes his time pulling on a pair of pants, slipping on a button up shirt, slides on a thick zip-up jacket and foregoes the socks as he shoves his feet into his shoes.

The room is empty when he gets out and he feels a heavy weight settle in his stomach as he walks out of the toilet. His dad hadn’t waited for him and he can’t help the dread he feels in his heart as he steps out of his room. Relief floods his system when he catches sight of his dad talking to Melissa near the end of the long corridor but, the second their eyes meet his, a cold sweat breaks out across his forehead at the piercing look they send his way.

He can’t help but feel judged.

The conversation with Melissa ends when she passes him a small, brown paper bag and a paper printout. They share a few more words before he starts walking in Stiles’ direction, hand reaching out towards him the closer he gets. He can’t help his sudden flinch and he doesn’t miss the look of shock on his dad’s face as he abruptly stops with just barely a foot of space between them.

Stiles suddenly feels ashamed of himself – of course his dad wouldn’t deliberately hurt him, but he can’t say the same for himself; he knows he’s already done more harm than good in the years he’s lived.

Tentatively, his dad moves around him, careful with the space, his hand taking the duffel bag away from him before continuing his walk down the hallway with Stiles following at a moderate distance behind him, feeling like a little lost boy. He feels multiple sets of eyes on him as they move but he does his best to ignore them, to pay them no mind.

The drive towards home is long, tense and full of stilted conversations that die before it can even begin. Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his dad to tell him to pack his bags and leave, waiting for his dad to take him to the station not as a police officer but as a murderer to be tried. John pulls up in the driveway of their house instead and puts the car in park, although he doesn’t kill the engine. Stiles watches the older man from the corner of his eye as he picks up the paper bag and a set of keys sitting between them and sets it on top of the duffle bag he has on his lap.

‘You should take the Vicodin before you go to sleep tonight. Melissa gave us some cottage pie; it’s in the fridge.’

‘Okay,’ Stiles says quietly as he takes the keys and unzips the bag, slipping his prescription pills inside. ‘Are you going back to work?’ He tries not to wince at their poor attempt of small talk. It feels so overly formal, especially for two men who have been living under the same roof for so many years.

‘Lot of work to finish up back at the station. Good news is that our closed cases’ rating is back in the green zone.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ he tries to smile but knows it’s coming off as more of a grimace instead as he taps his fingers along his jeans before reaching up for the door handle. He pauses just as he has one foot out of the car when he hears his dad sigh tiredly behind him.

‘We’ll talk later, Stiles. No ifs, ands or buts.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he says obediently as he gets out and closes the door behind him and has to open it again when he fails to get it to fully shut to first time. He feels like the awkward 17-year old kid from 4 years ago again.

He swears under his breath as his father reverses out of the driveway when he realizes that he’s only been here for 4 years and there’s a chance he might not be able to stay for much longer. He shakes the thought away – no use jumping to conclusions before he gathers all the facts first – as he walks to the front door and unlocks it with the keys his dad left him.

It’s late in the afternoon, the sun is setting and he should probably heat up some food for something to eat seeing as he hasn’t consumed anything but water over the past couple of days but he doesn’t think he can stomach it, not with the amount of dread and anxiety he can feel roiling uncomfortably in his gut. He goes up to his room instead, drops the bag by his computer chair and gingerly lies down on top of the sheets without changing.

Stiles keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling above him, doesn’t realize how long he lies there staring up at nothing until he blinks and his entire room is dark. A quiet noise of pain escapes from his lips when he realizes how much his chest and back is hurting and he has to grit his teeth as he kneels on the floor to dig around the bag until he comes out of it with his medication. His hands shake as he rips the paper bag to pieces to pull out the pill container that’s only less than a quarter full of Vicodin. As he struggles with the childproof lid he can’t help his manic laugh when he can’t get it to open.

He jumps when a hand steals the container away from his fingers and he blindly strikes out a punch before he can think better of it, aching at the sudden stretch of his muscles. Derek catches his forearm in a light grip before he makes impact, waits a few moments before letting go to twist the cap off.

‘Thanks,’ Stiles mutters as he swallows the pill dry and crawls his way back into bed, leaves the bottle on his bedside table, willing the medicine to come into effect sooner as he lies back down and tries to breathe around the ache in his chest, back and lungs. He feels tired suddenly, wants this whole nightmare of a day to just end, but he worries what tomorrow will bring.

Derek takes up the seat next to his bed, his jacket creaking slightly as he settles. Stiles shuts his eyes just as a bright ray of light flashes across the ceiling of his room followed by a quiet rumble of the car before it fades away. He raises a hand to his chest, rubs along the bottom edges of the bandages through his shirt as if it might soothe the ache. He feels a hand settle lightly atop his sternum again and he turns to see Derek do a repeat performance of last night, this time without the red eyes of an Alpha.

‘Thanks,’ he says again just as the first smidgen of pain starts to leech out of his body. He watches as dark lines appear along the back of Derek’s hand and disappears under the cuff of his leather jacket. It pulses like a heartbeat and he can’t help the quiet sigh of relief as he settles further on top of his bed, hand reaching out to perch lightly on Derek’s chest where he remembers the bullet creating new rivers of blood on his body. ‘How are you?’

‘It was shallow,’ Derek murmurs as he leans into the palm in a reassuring gesture, ‘barely half an inch deep.’

Stiles nods, although the movement is lost into the pillow as he moves his hand away and encircles Derek’s wrist instead, fingertips counting off each beat as it passes. ‘And your arm?’ He asks as he takes in the color of his skin. It’s not pale anymore but he looks exhausted and drained.

‘It’s healed,’ he tells him as his eyes flick upwards to meet his for a moment before shifting back down to his chest. ‘Your dad was there while we waited for the ambulance to come for you.’

Stiles sighs again, tiredly this time, as he closes his eyes and thinks back on his dad and how, if all goes bad, he might have to disappear soon. ‘I have to tell him everything,’ he murmurs quietly, feeling overwhelmed with fear and worry.

‘I know.’

‘I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know about werewolves and hunters and their Code. I don’t want him to know about _any_ of that stuff,’ he complains as he tightens his hold around Derek’s wrists, feels the need to ground himself before he loses his mind to all the hypothetical scenarios running through in his mind.

‘You want to protect him.’

‘It’s to protect _myself_ ,’ he contradicts with a hiss and a jerk, full of guilt and the need for self-preservation.

‘You want to protect him,’ he repeats firmly and Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek looking back at him with an unyielding expression. ‘You want to protect him from the sort of life you had to live, the kind of like you’re still living, but he’s your father and you have to remember that he has just as much right to protect you as you do for him.’

‘He’s not going to forgive me. Not after—’ he shakes his head, finds that he can’t say what he wants to say, that he can’t even _count_ the amount of people he’s killed and buried. ‘He’s not going to be able to look at me and be okay with it.’

‘It won’t be easy, he might not trust you as much as he used to but he’s still your family.’

He scoffs and manages not to roll his eyes mostly out of sheer exhaustion. ‘Yeah, and we saw how much family meant to Gerard and Kate.’

‘Not every family is like that,’ he says quietly, his eyes downcast and soft under his lashes. ‘They’re willing to kill each other but your father is willing to kill for you. Have you considered that?’

‘I—’ he chokes but eventually gives a weak nod. He can vaguely recall the splash of warm blood across his face as Kate fell, and he can still hear his dad, the conviction in his voice as he declared: _Should’ve stayed away from my son when you had the chance._

Things won’t go back to the way it once was, he knows this. He knows the trust they have is broken and that the relationship they share is being tested. The only reason why he’s still here is because he owes it to his dad to explain everything.

The only way left to go is forward, no matter how much the thought of his dad abandoning him as a lost cause scares him.

\-----

He made a promise to his late wife years ago. He gave her his word, standing at the foot of her grave repeating an oath to her that he will do whatever it takes to give her peace. He hadn’t known at the time how big of a promise he’d be making, how much he’d be tested, how far he’d be pushed down a road he can’t return from.

Stiles isn’t the 5-year old boy he once knew. Sometimes John wonders if he ever came home at all.

But he made a promise to her to protect their son, and he intends to fulfill it whatever it takes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I don't know what else to say, but I'm really happy.
> 
> Tee-hee~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a YEAAAR!!!! I suck. Truly, I do. This is the final instalment to Break the Foundation which has been sitting in my FF folder collecting virtual dust for a seriously long time. I'm so sorry. I promised a lot of things and failed to deliver any of them. I'll try to be a better person about this.

 

\-----

**Chapter 11**

\-----

He wakes to the unbearable sensation of being simultaneously stabbed in the back and cut open along his chest. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to move, it hurts to think but, God, he’s thankful to be alive. He grits his teeth together as he tries to sit up but finds that he can’t do more than lie miserably on his side with the top half of his body supported on one elbow. Sweat is gathering along his temple and he finds it so ridiculous that he’s struggling with trying to get himself out of bed when he remembers being able to run for miles and miles before becoming out of breath. It’s so stupid he wants to scream.

The childproof cap of his medicine is thankfully loose when he fumbles to grab it from his bedside table. He shakes three out, is almost tempted to swallow all of it in one go but refrains, slips two of them back into the bottle before throwing back the single pill. It doesn’t bring him a single bit of relief, not yet anyway, and all he can do until it does is lie back on his bed feeling weak and exhausted and body in so much pain it feels as though he’s being jabbed and sliced at with a hot poker.

Dull gray light is coming in through the poorly shut curtains of his room and it’s only now he realizes that he’s alone, Derek gone from his bedside. He can hear the birds just waking up with song and a quick look at the clock on his desk tells him that it’s only a little before 6 o’clock in the morning.

He taps lightly along the bottom edges of his bandages, his fingers occasionally catching on the buttons of his shirt. He wishes, pathetically, that the medicine would kick in and just dull the pain enough that he can maneuver himself out of bed and into the toilet because he feels the need to take care of some urgent business. At the fifteen minute mark he feels well enough to sit up without having to double over and bemoan his situation with a few choice curse words. By the time he’s done with everything he needs to do in the bathroom and makes it down the stairs into the living room he feels good enough to consider some food. That is, until he finds his dad sitting at the dining room table with a half-empty bottle of scotch and a tumbler that’s two fingers full of the golden liquid.

‘D-dad,’ he stutters and watches as the older man expertly knocks back what’s left in the glass and starts to fill it up again, as though Stiles’ presence requires him to partake in more liquid courage. There’s too much scotch in the bottle to be from the old one they kept in the cupboards – he remembers his dad promising not to drink excessively in deference to his high blood pressure – and he can tell it was a recent purchase from the rumpled paper bag lying limply on the table and the empty packaging box flat on its side by his dad’s feet.

He wonders what time his dad got in, wonders where he bought the alcohol from, wonders how long he’s been drinking for. All shops are prohibited from selling alcohol after 2am and he hopes, _he hopes_ , his dad hasn’t been here sitting for that long, or even longer, with nothing but a bottle to keep him company.

Stiles is careful as he takes the bottle away, realizes there’s only slightly less than a third of the scotch left now that he’s close enough to measure it in his hands. He hates himself for the dark smudges under his dad’s eyes, the haggard look on his face, the deep lines between his eyebrows and the tension around the corners of his lips. What he hates the most is the blank expression his dad gives him when he finally looks up from his glass.

‘Sit down,’ John tells him, not a single hint of inflection in his voice as he speaks, ‘and start talking.’

He hugs the bottle close to his chest even though it hurts but he can’t tell if it’s more from heartbreak or the actual wound itself. There is no contest. He lowers himself to the seat opposite his dad and tries to breathe around the ache and the rattle he feels under his ribcage as his dad swirls the liquor in his glass in a lazy circle. He wonders if this is the right time to talk about it but if his dad wants to do it now while he’s halfway to drunk then fine, maybe it’ll lessen the shock when he finally tells him the whole truth.

Stiles doesn’t know which part to go from but he figures the only way to do it is to tell his dad whatever he can, starting from his earliest memory back in a rundown apartment in San Francisco learning about guns; how to take it apart and put it back together again. He thinks he was about 8 at the time. He fumbled at first, as all beginners would at the cold weight and heavy press of a loaded gun in their hands, but the way they taught him was both cruel and, without a doubt, extremely efficient.

He tells him what he can of what he did before he found out everything he lived for was nothing but a lie; a farce to keep him in line. He talks about the Code, what it means to be a Hunter, and what role he plays in order to keep the balance between the supernatural world and the human world from tipping. He finds himself talking mostly about the first couple of months before and during the time he found himself in Beacon Hills; the pinnacle point that changed everything in his life.

The frown on his dad’s face grows deeper and deeper the more he talks, and it’s not long before his glass is empty again but he doesn’t gesture for the bottle, of which he is thankful for because Stiles doesn’t think he can say no to his dad if pressed. He finds himself tightening his fingers around the neck of the bottle anyway, slowly inching it out of sight before it can be brought up.

‘Is this why you chose to be a police officer? So you can cover up everything you did?’ His dad asks, not a single hint of accusation in his voice, sounding more tired and resigned than anything else.

He flinches as if struck even though, yes, that was one of the many reasons why he chose that profession. Mostly, he chose it because he wanted to stay by his dad’s side as much and as often as he possibly can and partially because he’d be able to keep a lid on things if some cases turn out to be less run-of-the-mill and more supernaturally inclined instead.

‘A bit,’ he admits, because there’s no more use in lying to his dad, not when he’s already laid everything out on the table. ‘There wasn’t anything else I knew how to do.’

There were a myriad of careers to choose from. He knows because his dad gave him pamphlet after pamphlet, one college booklet after another in a bid to get Stiles to pick something _safer_. But, the thing is, he knows he wouldn’t be able to stick to it.

‘So you thought—’ his dad breathes heavily through his nose as he brings a hand up to his forehead, momentarily hiding his face away from him.

Stiles hates that he did this to his dad, that he put the defeat in his tone and posture.

He feels guilty for bringing this on his dad but he tells himself he deserves it – the hate, the anger, the disgust – and he finds himself suddenly fascinated with the wood grains on the table while his hands compulsively tighten and loosen around the glass bottle with its bottom edges digging into his thigh muscle. He braces himself for the inevitable fallout because there’s no way his dad would be fine with this, regardless of their blood relation.

John eventually sighs as he stands up, smelling strongly of alcohol but not drunk enough to sway even the slightest bit on his feet. Stiles worries that he must’ve been steadily drinking over the course of several hours to come out of it like this; dull around the edges compared to his regular self but still relatively sober.

‘Go get something to eat. I know you skipped dinner,’ his dad tells him as he drops the glass in the kitchen sink and maneuvers his way around Stiles, shying away from coming too close and touching him.

It hurts; he’s not going to lie. His dad is purposefully avoiding coming into contact with him when they used to be able to hug and dole out casual pats on the back like all families do. He listens as slow, heavy footsteps make their way up the staircase, down the hallway before disappearing into the master bedroom.

Stiles finds his throat clicking as he tries to swallow down the lump in there and it takes him several minutes of breathing in and out, slowly and deeply, until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to lose himself in another dizzying panic attack. He stands, almost stumbles over his clumsy feet over the empty box on the floor as he makes his way into the kitchen to dump the rest of the scotch down the drain.

It’s not the good stuff; just one of those plain and cheap bottles of scotch that doesn’t leave a nice aftertaste, more to get the consumer drunk than anything else. He feels no remorse over the waste of it because it’s not a high-grade quality of scotch; it’s just booze.

He microwaves a small portion of cottage pie and eats it standing in the middle of the kitchen, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the bland mince and potatoes into his mouth. He normally loves Melissa’s cooking, loves the flavors, the smells and the rich aroma that always comes from her recipes, but he can’t taste anything beyond the starchiness of the potatoes leaving behind a floury feeling on his tongue. He forces himself to swallow it all down because he hasn’t eaten for too long and he’ll need all the strength he can get to recover from his injuries. There’s about two or three bite-size chunks left in his bowl when he feels sick to his stomach from all the thoughts rolling around in his head and he has to force himself to _stop_ before he makes even more of a mess of himself.

Stiles hovers over by the sink as he tries to quell his stomach and it takes several deep heaving breaths and several more minutes before he decides he’s had enough food in his tummy and enough revelations for one morning. He dutifully does the dishes, the only three that are in the sink, and leaves it to air-dry on the wire rack before retreating back to bed to waste the rest of his day away with his head conjuring one horrible scenario after another.

He stops outside his room and listens carefully to whatever sounds that might come out from the master bedroom but its quiet; not even a single snore to be heard to indicate his dad sleeping off the alcohol in his blood stream. He tamps down the sudden need to check in on him, decides that his dad probably has had enough with seeing him for one day.

There’s a dull ache in his chest, the Vicodin working all of its wonders on his body as he gingerly slips off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt to replace it with a loose top but the moment he starts to stretch his arms over his head he changes his mind and decides to sleep without it instead. He kicks off his shoes and trades his jeans for a worn pair of sweats before sliding the covers off his bed off and folding it around his body as he settles in. The sheets are cool against his skin, feels soothing against the ache in his back and the sting along his chest even through the bandages. His head hurts and he tries not to think too much about what he’s said and what he’s revealed, but it’s difficult to tune out the look of disappointment and hurt on his dad’s face.

He doesn’t know how he manages it but he falls into a light doze and dreams of his dad calling him a bastard son, holding onto a bottle of scotch like a lifeline and throwing an empty tumbler in his direction. He wakes to the sound of shattering glass and jerks into an upright position in his bed and swears loudly when he notices his dad leaning over him. He scrambles into a sitting position, remembers belatedly of his wounds and hopes he hasn’t accidentally torn off the stitching. He runs shaky fingers along the incision of his chest and is thankful it isn’t stained with droplets of blood.

John sighs quietly through his nose as he starts carefully pulling Stiles out of bed telling him, ‘We need to change the bandages.’

‘It’s okay,’ he tries to push his dad off as he stands up, never minding the blankets as they pool around his feet. ‘I can do it.’

His dad smells like aftershave, no hint of alcohol left on his breath or body as he follows Stiles out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. The first-aid kit is already lying open by the sink with a bottle of antiseptic, a bag of cotton balls and rolls of gauze lined up along the counter ready for use. There’s no clock in the bathroom to tell him how much time has passed and how long he’d slept for but according to the ache in his chest it might be somewhere between 4 to 8 hours later since that’s about how long the Vicodin only lasts for at any one time.

It feels awkward with his dad watching him gingerly roll off the bandages around his chest and he can’t help the wince when he feels the stitching catch just a little bit on a loose thread. It hurts but not unbearably so. There’s a long line going down his chest roughly 5 inches long. It’s red and angry, large scabs over in some places and deep bruises in a couple others. He knows they had to cut him open to get to the bullet fragment, that they almost had to break a couple of ribs in order to reach in without too much difficulty but he’s thankful they didn’t. He’s not sure how much better he’d be able to cope with it if he had broken ribs on top of the gunshot wound in his back and the deep incision along his front.

His hands shake pathetically as he dabs some antiseptic onto a cotton ball and he can’t help the wince as he lightly pats it along the cut. He watches his dad do the same for another cotton ball before reaching behind him to the gunshot wound just beneath his shoulder blade.

‘Thanks,’ he murmurs and tries not to jerk at the cold, painful application of antiseptic on the injury. His dad’s fingers are light and gentle but it doesn’t stop his body from betraying him with an involuntary flinch every time it touches skin.

As it turns out, he actually needs help to wrap a new layer of gauze around his body and he can’t help feeling embarrassed and guilty as he lifts his arms just up to his shoulders and lets his dad take over. He drops his arms back down when it’s finished and starts to throw away the used cotton balls and wash down the sink area while his dad packs the first-aid kit away.

They both stand awkwardly in the bathroom after it’s all done and Stiles fights down the urge to clear his throat as he skirts his way around his dad to make a hasty retreat back into his room thinking that’s that; his dad doesn’t have to deal with him anymore now that he’s done his part with helping his prodigal son.

He’s surprised when his dad follows him back into his room, waits for Stiles to sit back down on his bed before he takes up the seat next to him and eyes him with a sharp gaze.

Stiles draws in a sharp breath as his dad speaks.

‘I’m angry,’ John starts, his gaze never once wavering as he focuses his whole attention on him, ‘you’ve lied to me for so long but given the circumstances if I hadn’t seen what happened with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed a single word you said this morning. I’m devastated that you’ve had to…’ he trails off, expression crumpling to one of grief before he regains back the strength he needs to plow on, ‘that you’ve had to take lives to find your own. You’re guilty of multiple counts of murder and several other crimes. I’m guilty for harboring a fugitive who used to go by the name Dylan, but I think I can live with it.’

Stiles feels shaky with relief and guilt as he breathes out and takes in his words, wonders what he ever did to deserve his dad’s protection, how he must’ve earned it. ‘I know I’m not a role-model son—’

‘No, but you’re _my_ son,’ he says shakily, his voice giving way to the emotional turmoil building up between them. ‘Regardless of everything that’s happened, through thick and thin, you will always be my son. I can’t condone this behavior but like I said before; you made the best of what you had in the circumstances that you were given. I don’t agree with it 100% but you’re here and you’re alive and that, to me, is a miracle.’

He reaches out for his dad but stops before he completes the movement, uncertain if the touch will be accepted even though they’ve, more or less, talked through the worst of their issues. John leans forward in his chair and is careful with where he places his arms around Stiles’ shoulders as he gently holds him close. He tries not to cry but it’s hard not to when he realizes what his dad is willing to go through, how much he’s willing to keep quiet, to allow Stiles to stay.

It’ll take a lot to repair their broken relationship but Stiles will work for it, just like he worked to have him back in his life. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give to stay by his dad’s side.

\-----

There’s a folder detailing a ballistics report that’s been lying on his desk for far too long, and there are files and records in the drawers of the police station he knows will become compromising evidence some day. John isn’t sure how he can protect Stiles but he starts by taking all he can of the documents back home with him and burning all the paper trails in the rarely-used fireplace concerning a young 17-year old boy. He erases all electronic records of blood samples collected from the school gym over 4 years ago and he deletes the video recording of what took place in the interrogation room shortly after. He takes the gun from the evidence room and keeps it in his safe at home, burning the plastic it came with and throwing the melted scraps into the fireplace along with the smoldering ashes.

John doesn’t know how else to protect his son, but he starts by making sure Dylan O’Brien doesn’t exist.

It’s ironic, in some ways.

\-----  
\-----

**Epilogue**

\-----  
\-----

Irises were his mother’s favorite flowers. He doesn’t find out from his dad, although he does confirm it when asked, instead Stiles finds out from the many little iris-themed knick-knacks his mother used to collect and place around the house before she died and John packed them away into the attic. He took some of them back out, tucked a few away in his room to remind himself of her and her smile whenever his gaze falls upon them.

The plastic of the gift-wrap crinkles between his fingers as he shifts in front of her grave. There are a lot of things he wants to say but they’re all fighting for precedence in his throat and he finds that he can’t get a single word out. All he can manage is a weak laugh and a small smile as he crouches down to place her favorite flowers under her name, fingers trailing delicately on the petals.

His chest aches as he touches the marble and traces the curves of each letter in her name, finds his lips moving to murmur them out softly under his breath. His fingers still when he hears footsteps coming up along beside him and he turns to see Derek, dressed in an immaculate black suit mirroring his own, with his eyes focused on the photo of Stiles’ mother protected behind glass on her headstone.

‘Is it time, yet?’ Stiles asks as he stands to his full height, making sure to pick up the other bouquet of flowers he bought specifically for the occasion.

‘Yeah,’ Derek replies as he nudges his head in the general direction of where a small crowd has gathered around a closed coffin. ‘Erica is going to arrive with her dad soon. We should take our seats.’

‘Okay,’ he breathes as he gives his mom one more lingering look before walking away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember promising the third and final part to this series. I cannot guarantee that I'll get around to it. I can't even guarantee that I'll finish what I started. But I'll continue to do my best, for my own moral integrity if not for others.

**Author's Note:**

> On another note, you can find me on Tumblr by clicking [HERE](http://straggling-wanderer.tumblr.com/).


End file.
